#that should kick the fog out from my brain more productively

[reitziluz]

setting all the valid reasons aside, the biggest reason why i loathe tiktok is that compared to the volume level of literally everything else, every single tiktok i've ever attempted to watch has been 500% louder.

like, jumpscare, hurts my ears loud if i got the volume up to begin with. they're so fucking loud a part of me gets why apparently people watch tiktoks on speaker in public. i wouldn't want that kind of noise beamed directly into my ears, either.

(i don't want that kind of noise blasted into my ears from tinny phone speakers either. or any other unnecessary noise. be courteous to others in public.)

[honeyabyss]

Mc falling asleep next to them

Lucifer:

he had been working nonstop for hours now and the pile of yet to be read and signed documents wasn't getting any smaller

you had been sitting in his study silently working on your own assignments, that was until you've finished them about an hour ago

pacing his room in boredom and looking at the stuff he keeps in his closets (mostly books, records and demonus)

"Could you stop wandering around, you're irritating me!" Lucifer is stressed, annoyed, etc and your sighs, constant footsteps and opening and closing of closet doors, didn't help him to concentrate

you could have left the room and found something else to do, but you were determined to spend some time with him, as the evening work hours are quite literally the only hours where you can be alone with him

so instead you seeked permission for putting on a record to have at least some entertainment, which was both a good and a bad choice at the same time

yes you had something to enjoy and relax to, but the relaxing part worked a little bit too well

after a good ten minutes you were sleeping peacefully, stretched out all over his sofa with no care in the world

"I'm going to take a small break and get some coffee. Do you want something as well?" Lucifer asked only to be met with silence, which he didn't appreciate

he was about scold you for being rude, when his gaze fell on your sleeping form and the words seemed stuck in his throat

how could you sleep so peacefully right next to one of the strongest demons of hell, he honestly didn't know if he was pleased you found comfort in his presence or if he should be annoyed that you don't take him serious enough

nonetheless you seemed to have a good sleep and as this is often near impossible in the House of Lamentation, he decided to let you sleep

he got himself his coffee and once back in his study he moved his workplace to the small coffee table and took a seat next to you on the sofa

he adjusted your form so you weren't hanging half of the edge and put his coat over your sleeping form for some warmth

"Foolish little lamb, letting your guard down in a house of wolves, good thing I'm here to protect you..."

Mammon:

"And then I, the Great Mammon, made an action movie worthy escape and totally didn't run away in a panic, because Lucifer was chasing me..."

he had been telling you how exactly he got into the situation of hanging from the ceiling once again, as you've tried as careful as possible to cut him free, which was harder then expected with the way he kept moving around

once finally free, he dropped onto the ground, whining about the rope burns he got basically all over his body, though demons heal quicker, it still wasn't a nice feeling

with a sigh you offered him your hand and pulled him up and away to your room to give him some of the salve Satan had made you the last time you had accidentally cut yourself while cooking

you sat a flustered Mammon onto your bed while you went ahead and searched through your bathroom cabinets that were filled with products Asmo had gifted you, when you finally found it you asked Mammon to hold still while you put some salve onto his burned skin

"W-what?! N-no way! I don't need your help, I can do that on my own!" and with that Mammon stormed away with your salve and locked himself into your bathroom

you knew better then to argue at this point, Mammon would do what Mammon wants to do...until he fails and seeks protection behind your back...

be it because he is embarrassed, doesn't know how to open the salve tube, or because there were so many rope burns...but Mammon took quite long to apply the crème, leaving you to wait for him for at least half an hour now

helping out Mammon can become quite tiring, not that you mind helping him or don't like being around him, but a nap sounds nice right now

and so you lay down in your bed, it is after all your room, and just because Mammon is currently camping out in your bathroom, doesn't mean that you can't take a nap

Mammon comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, he probably needed a few more minutes to build up courage to face and thank you, but he is met with the sight of you sleeping on your bed

Mammons brain is working overdrive, trying to figure out if he should leave the room quietly, wake you up or stay and watch over you...then again he doesn't want to be seen as a creep by you, but he can't deny that he would like to stay with you

he carefully climbs into bed and pushes you a bit further in so you sleep on the wall side and don't fall off in case you move, it takes five more minutes until Mammon risks putting his arm around you all while holding his breath in anticipation of your rejection, when none comes he settles a little closer to you and falls asleep as well

"Don't worry my human, the Great Mammon is gonna keep you warm and protected in your sleep!"

Bonus: even though you two fall asleep next to each other with only Mammons arm wrapped around you, expect him to wake up on top of you holding you like your his pillow

Leviathan:

it was 5am and Levi and you were currently waiting in line in front of a shop to get your hands on a new limited edition Ruri-Chan figurine

surprisingly enough even though you turned up quite early, there were a good amount of people in front of you

the shop would only open a 9am so you still had a long time to queue in the coldness of the devildom morning

"Ah that is not fair! We planned everything so carefully, it was the perfect timing, why aren't we first in line?" Levi complained while standing on his tiptoes to be able to see and count the demons in front of him, coming to the conclusion that if everyone were to buy one figurine he'd still be able to buy one for himself...and whatever you might want

you weren't the happiest when he told you about his plan a few weeks prior and getting woken up this early you might have been a little slower than usual in getting yourself ready, now that you were here you couldn't help but feel a little guilty

you tried to cheer Levi up with the argument that if you were longer in line that also meant you could spend more time together, which resulted in Levi turning into a blushing but happy mess

you put down the blanket you've brought and made yourself comfortable on it, Levi joining you but looking a bit stiff from the closeness

you ate a breakfast consisting out of sandwiches made with whatever was left after Beels midnight snack, which wasn't much but better than nothing

afterwards as there was still a lot of time to pass you started to play some games on his Switch, trying to stay awake

the emphasis lies on 'trying', because after 2 hours or so you start to fall asleep, eyelids and limbs heavy, you don't have the energy left in you to fight the sleep and so you nod off, your head falling onto Levis shoulder who had been inching closer over the period of time...to be able to better see the Switch display not to be closer to you...

Levi.exe has stopped working

there he sits red as a tomato with Mc sleeping on his shoulder, the queue in front of him starts to pack up and move as the shop gets ready to open up, his Switch display is showing the game over screen, his mind feels fogged over and he has no idea how to react now

Mc just fell asleep and Levi feels guilty to wake them...but they have to move...

"H-hey Mc? T-the line i-is moving? Wake up....please..." his attempts are way to quiet for you to hear and even as he gently shakes your shoulder you do not wake, leaving Levi quiet in a dilemma

"N-no other choice..." he says as he packs up the stuff alone, leaving only you sitting on the cold floor...he can't just leave you here..

Levi turns into his demon form, his hands shaking and eyes flitting across your from and over the crowd of other demons, before he carefully lifts you into his arm, his tail wrapping around you as well for more stabilization, so he has one hand free to carry his shopping bag later

he never bought something faster than that day, he got his figurine and even bought you some anime merch he knew you had stated to like, all while feeling like he was running the worst fever of his life and receiving stares, giggles and smug smiles from way too may people, that was enough attention for at least a century for Levi...but he did like holding you in his arms

"This is not fair! I have to deal with all the embarrassment while you sleep...but I guess it's okay if it's for you..."

Satan:

Satans last anger fit had caused way more damage than usually, it had taken place in the library when Mammon had tried to steal a very rare book about spells, to sell it after he found out how rare it actually is...now that lead to Satan throwing down and emptying almost all bookshelves and kicking Mammon through the room

While Mammon was strung upside down from the ceiling, Satan was forced to clean up the library alone, but you had pity on him as there were quite a lot to clean up, if Lucifer doesn't find out you helped there will be no consequences

Satans opinion about you helping was split, first of all he was really thankful for the help even though he was at fault for the chaos, having to clean up all alone was a bit much, but on second thought Satan was worried that you tried to go against Lucifers orders, he's proud of you for defying his eldest brother but also feels like it's a stupid idea

but you have made your mind up and so while Satan repairs and stands up the shelves, you begin to put the books in, you might not know the exact way they stood like Satan, but for now getting them off the floor is the priority

there aren't many words spoken as you silently work away, only once in a while you point out a book which got a bit more damage, the cover hanging off loosely or a few pages ripped out, you two decide depending on the damage if it can be fixed or not

every now and then Satan asks you to hold a piece of a shelf together while he fixes it, he is surprisingly fast and knows exactly how to repair it...just as if he had to do it more than once in a while...

"Oh Mc? Can you give me the screwdriver? No no that one, the one with the cross head is what I need..." you had no idea there were so many different tools, and wouldn't be the slotted one sufficient if you just angled it right? Satan just laughs and let's you try it for yourself, only for you to fail, he then shows you how to do it correctly guiding you through fixing your first shelf

"The last shelf is standing again, I'll help you with the book now." Satan pointed out, a small ray of hope now that only the books were left, you didn't reply, which honestly wasn't really necessary, but a small affirming noise would have been nice, so Satan tries to keep the 'conversation' going, while he works on the books with his back turned to you

"...you're still ignoring me? Are you angry at me for making such a mess? You know you didn't have to help...you can go, no need to act like all high and mighty!" he was getting angry again, yes he did make a mess, but he didn't do anything to you! Had he? He couldn't remember, but humans might interpret actions and words differently…he didn't want you to be mad at him, and neither did he want to get angry at you, but with you ignoring him it became quite difficult to keep his voice low

having enough and wanting to make up before it gets worse, he makes his way over to you, who was leaning against a shelf with a book in your hand

as he sits down next to you and turns your body to him through a guiding hand on your shoulder, he startles, you fell asleep in a sitting position? That sounds more like something Belphie would do...Isn't that uncomfortable?

You must have been exhausted after filling up three shelves of books and fell asleep midway on your fourth shelf, Satan chuckles amused and relieved you aren't mad at him but simply sleeping

He picks you up and brings you to your room where he lies you down in your bed, covering you with the blanket and hesitantly stroking your hair before going back to cleaning up the library

"Thank you for being so patient with me and helping me! You can rest now and I'll make it up to you later!"

Bonus: he will most definitely take you out on a date of your choice, even if he doesn't enjoy the idea as much as you

Asmodeus:

Asmo had taken you out shopping, as he claimed his wardrobe was not having the right clothes anymore so he had to get new ones fast

he had dragged you through town for the whole day and you two only returned home late in the afternoon, you completely exhausted and ready to drop in your bed, while Asmo while being slightly tired, still insisted on putting on all the clothes and showing them off to you and his followers on Devilgram

he entrusted you with his D.D.D to take some nice amazing shots of him to gain even more followers, though that seemed impossible as it already felt as if the whole population of hell was already subscribed to his account

but as long as all you had to do was hold the D.D.D up and click the screen for a picture, you were fine, you sat down on Asmos bed trying not to disturb the bags of clothes that lay there as well

Asmos screen lit up nearly every few seconds with a new message, how did this man not get crazy with all the message?! And he must check them all, because whenever you write him, he is on and writing back instantly...maybe you should steal his D.D.D from time to time to get him away from it...

While Asmo was changing into new clothes in the bathroom, you could hear him humming a happy tune, clearly in his element and enjoying his time, which made you happy as well, but the exhaustion was still plaguing you and the bed felt unbelievably comfy and on top of that the humming of Asmo was slowly lulling you into sleep

"Oooh Mc~ I especially like this top! Just look how nicely it fits, it shows of my best parts, which are all of me haha...hey Mc?~ Look at me!" Asmo pouted as you stayed put on his bed, and climbed over your form, already expecting you to start pushing him off, only to get concerned when you don't

then he sees your eyes are closed and you seem to be peacefully asleep, he instantly coos at your sweet sleeping expression, the back of his hand caresses you cheeks softly, but you don't react much besides moving a bit into am ore comfy position

Asmo backs off and begins to put down his bags, then he tucks you under his covers and climbs right in with you, pulling you close so that you lie on his chest, his arms encircling you to keep you put

the pictures for Devilgram are forgotten for now, they're not running away anyway, you two can continue another time, but for a beauty nap sounds good

"Oh Mc! You look so cute when you're sleeping...next time tell me you need a break, I'm happy to cuddle you while you're recovering!"

Beelzebub:

you had decided to stay a bit longer at RAD today, because you still had something to discuss with one of the teacher, as well as doing some research for an essay that was due next week

most of the brothers had already left for home or different work related activities, except Beel who had Fangol practice today after school, and as you were not allowed to walk around the Devildom without someone accompanying you for protection, all that was left for you was to wait for Beel to finish his practice, which usually took place for about two hours

you sat down on one of the benches at the side of the field, waving to Beel so he knew you where you were and could keep an eye on you

you worked away on your homework and checked you D.D.D from time to time replying to all the messages you got

the practice seemed to be still not finished even after two hours had passed and you were getting a bit tired from sitting around, but you also couldn't just wander off, Beel might start worry...plus the risk of running into a less friendly demon was still a thing

so you shifted from one position into another not really being able to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench

the ground seemed to be comfier with every minute passing, and so you lay down ignoring the weird looks of the team and trainers, you're body simply wasn't made to sit on this bench longer than necessary

"Here you can wrap yourself in this...it's getting cold. Training is almost over, just hold out a few more minutes!" Beel came over and gave you his jacket and you quickly put it on revelling in his warmth

but here is the problem the jacket made you feel so comfortable that you fell asleep, right on the floor next to a few dozen demons

"We're finished! I'm hungry, let's go get something to eat, any wishes what you want?" Beel was packing his stuff and rambling on about how he could eat at least one year worth of food, training having starved him quite a lot

but when you didn't respond he grew worried and kneeled down next to you, gently resting his hand on your side, he simply laughed when he saw you fell asleep, he is used to it due to Belphie, so he carefully picks you up and carries you home, deciding to order food once there

just Beel giving you a piggy back home, softly smiling to himself and being happy you've come to be so at ease around demons..still at bit worried, but he'll protect you, no worries

"I'll stay by your side until you wake up...and then we can eat lots of good food...please just don't sleep too long or I might have to eat before you wake up."

Belphegor:

so there he was, sleeping, on your bed, in your room, without an invitation...and honestly it wasn't even a surprise anymore, coming home after a work shift at Hell's Kitchen and just wanting to sleep, but no there was no space for you on the bed

I have no idea how, but he manages to occupy the whole bed, and hog blanket and pillows to himself as well

if only he was easy to wake, just to tell him to move over, but no he wouldn't wake up unless you pulled the big guns and nobody wants to face the consequences after one dumped water bottle on his head, it would be a hundred times easier and less dangerous to wake Satan

but you were really tired and just wanted to cuddle into your bed, maybe you could maneuver him with a bit strength..actually forget that...you could always call Beel for help to carry him to his own bed, but by the way he was clinging to your blanket and pillows, that would only end in a empty mattress to sleep on and then you would get cold...

honestly it was his own fault at this point you had threatened him to do it, but he had just laughed it off...

and so you climbed into bed and lay down on top of him, wrapping your arms around him so that you would get at least his body warmth if not the blanket

to your surprise he didn't wake up and he was really comfy, his rhythmic breathing was really relaxing and it didn't take you long to fall asleep

after some time Belphie wakes up with you wrapped around him, he quickly realises that you're asleep, but is stunned nonetheless that you would actually have the guts to sleep on top of him with the risk of waking him up in a bad mood

"That's quite bold of you! You didn't think I will let that slip though, right?" he chuckles amused but shifts nonetheless to make room for you, his embrace is tight, and he hopes just a little bit that you wake up, so he can tease you, but you stay asleep looking content with your new position

"I suppose I could go for another nap...now that I have my favourite pillow with me, sleeping will be even better!" he cuddles you, just like the blanket and pillows...which you don't get any of by the way, but you get Belphie so that's even better, he's gonna keep you warm, don't worry

"You're such a odd human...no idea why I like you...anyway just stay here in my arms and sleep!"

Diavolo:

yesterday was amazing, Dia had taken you to a trip in the human world and you had showed him around, visiting as many places as you two could

what you didn't know was that he had actually sneaked out of the castle to spend time with you

well you didn't know until a very angry Barbatos opened a portal right in front of you two and started lecturing Dia for at least one hour

you felt a bit guilty that you were the indirect cause of this and quickly apologised to him promising to make it up

so here you were in Dias office, overseeing him to do his work so he couldn't sneak out again and Barb didn't have to find him

after all if the reason for sneaking out was right in his room then he had no reason to go, besides the intimidating amount of work left on his desk after yesterdays excurse

Dia worked concentrated for most of the time, only now and then staring out of the window or talking to you

"Isn't it boring to watch me work? I can work alone, I promise to run away...or else Barbatos might get a heart attack from shock of seeing me gone again" he chuckled while signing another document

you reassured you didn't mind sitting next to him in silence, you had a good book borrowed from Satan, tea and cookies from Barbatos and you could stare at Diavolo all day long

your last statement made Dia flush red quite quickly and he tried to distract himself with his work, he slouched over in his chair trying to escape your gaze, but you were having none of it

your arms snaked around his waist and your head came to lean on his shoulder, Dia stiffened not sure how to react he liked the feeling of you hugging him, but now he was scared to move too much as not to disturb you or accidentally hit you with his elbow while trying to write

after a few more documents his eyes flit over to your face, cheek squished against his shoulder, eyes closed and breathing calmly

"Mc? Are.. are you sleeping?" he is whispering trying not to be too loud in case you are truly sleeping, and that you are! A soft smile graces his lips, nobody was ever this relaxed around him, he is proud and wants you to stay asleep as long as possible

he keeps working until Barbatos knocks on the door, coming in and announcing to have brought more tea, only to stop when he sees the sight in front him, Mc holding onto Dia, head resting on his shoulder and sleeping, while Dia put his finger to his lips to tell him not to be too loud

you sleep for an hour or so until Dia really has to move, apologising multiple times for having to wake you

"I'm glad you're able to relax around me, please continue to be yourself! My shoulder is always there for you to nap!"

Barbatos:

"You liked the cake that much? I'm flattered! I could teach you how to make it if you'd like?"

you had been over for tea at the castle and the chocolate cake with black-as-hell cherries was the best cake you've ever ate, it was bittersweet in taste not too much sweetness and not too much bitterness, paired with the melting chocolate, you could have eaten the whole cake on your own

you doubt you'd be able to get the same ingredients in the human realm but maybe you could find similar ones, so you were more than willing to learn with Barbatos

and so you arranged to meet the next Sunday afternoon for a baking session

Barb let you into the castle already awaiting you at the door even though you were early

you two worked on the cake, Barb explaining each step carefully, even for the easiest steps he takes his time to explain and help you, being very patient with you no matter how much you screw up

"Next we have to melt the chocolate in a pot. Wait a minute I turn on the stove for you" while you put the chocolate pieces into a pot, Barb moves behind you and turns on the stove, his arms brushing your sides, yet he stays fully focused, what can't be said for you

the cake is put together quickly with you two working together and while it bakes in the oven and the chocolate is meting, you two go ahead and start cutting and coring the rest of the cherries to decorate the cake later

"Here have a taste, they're bitter at first but the aftertaste is nicely sweet!" He holds out a cored cherry for you to taste and eats one himself, smiling gently at you while you sniff at the fruit first, which smells exactly like a normal human world cherry

the only thing left to do is wait for the cake so you two sit down for some tea at a small table in the kitchen, talking about the week, when Diavolo calls for Barb and he quickly excuses himself to help the prince out

the sweet aroma of the baking cake, the warmth of the tea and the very comfy chair you're sitting in, are a dangerous combination making you fall asleep

as Barb returns he sees you with your head lying on your folded arms on the table, clearly asleep, Barb decides to eave you there while cleans the kitchen and checks on the cake half an hour later

"Mc? The cake is ready to be decorated do you want sleep or do you want to help me?" somewhat embarrassed you stand up and help him with the decorations , Barb acts if nothing happened but he can't help but think about your gentle expression while you slept

"Next time I'll let you sleep longer... I wouldn't mind if you visited me for your naps if that meant I could see you more often."

Solomon:

learning magic was many things: exciting, frustrating, dangerous, fun...but sometimes it also was unbelievable boring

like when you think about magic, you think about casting charms, curses, making potions and all that stuff, but nobody told you that beforehand you have to learn everything about the new spell or etc in theory!

so here you were sitting with Solomon as he rambled on about how while the shrinking charm could have really bad side effects if casted wrong, sure it was important to know how to cast it correctly but did you really have to listen on to everything that might go wrong?

listening to all this just make you feel less confident, I mean technically you were practicing with a tea cup to shrink, so shrinking only a part of it wouldn't be too bad of a side effect, but what if you used too much pressure and made the cup explode and you'd hurt Solomon in the process?!

You took a deep breath, which made Solomon stop talking as he looked at you questioningly

"Anything wrong? Already giving up? Is it toom much?" his light teasing was meant to make you relax, but all you could do was give a small, stiff smile, signalling for him to continue and he did, after messing up your hair with his hand giving you a huge grin, but he talked slower now giving you more glances to make sure you were still alright

"How about a small break? I'll make us some tea..." he stood up and made some tea...in a beaker over a Bunsen burner..this weirdo..

the tea didn't taste weird though, it was just normal tea, even though the preparation would have made Barbatos get a stroke

after the break he was back to full tutor mode and your concentration slipped with each new word, until your head falls down, your chin resting on your chest comfortably, you had fallen asleep right before him

Solomon notices instantly that you're asleep and starts laughing so loud that you wake up again, he is crying and gasping for breath at your flustered state and you hit for good measurement on the arm

"Am I that boring? Fine if you're tired you can rest on my bed. I'll read you a bedtime spell book..." he doesn't stop laughing and teases you endlessly, you better be on your toes around him, you won't be hearing the end of this

"Hey sleepyhead? Do you want me to read you into boredom? I won't take pictures of your sleeping and drooling self...No promises made though..."

Simeon:

He was staring blankly at his manuscript, writers block had been plaguing him for quite some while now, but the new chapter had to be sent to the company until next week

you had offered to help him out maybe you could give him some ideas, so he invited you over and let you read the latest chapter so you'd know what had happened

you sat in his room brainstorming ideas on a small extra sheet trying your best to help Simeon out who looked quite lost

"Do you think that would work? Doesn't if feel a bit too rushed? But maybe if we combined these two ideas together..." he seemed to had found something and began to roughly write up a plan for his further writings

he continuously asked you questions about the smallest details, it was kind of cute that he relied so much on you, he probably could have done the rest himself as well, yet he kept involving you into the whole process

while his one hand scribbled like a madman, his other rested on your arm occasionally lightly squeezing it, reminding you that he didn't forget about you

you slowly fell asleep, the sounds of each others breathing, the pen scratching over paper and the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall, the inly sounds to be heard

"What about this part? How do you think it could go from here?...Mc?" he wasted no time in making sure you were lying comfortably, putting his cloak over your form and still squeezing your arm from time to time while he continued to write late into the night

only then did he notice, the brothers might worry about your absence, should he wake and bring you home? or should he let you sleep here and inform Lucifer about your safety? but the sofa you were currently sitting on, would make your back hurt if you continued to sleep here

it took him some time debating with himself, but came to the conclusion to carry you to his bed and tuck you in, giving you a forehead kiss like he was used to with Luke, only to realise what he'd done and quickly scrambling away in embarrassment to give Lucifer a quick call about the situation

"Have sweet dreams my lamb! I'll be guarding you in any realm, even the dream realm!"

Luke:

Luke, Simeon and you were having a small movie evening, watching some old Disney movies

Simeon didn't allow you to watch something else to protect Luke, but you didn't mind too much

you were having some freshly made desserts by Luke who had worked on them the whole day, as he was very excited for your meetup

you watched a few movies, talking, laughing and joking together, just having fun

"Huh? They called the mean cat Lucifer? Hahah how fitting, he kind of even looks like the real Lucifer! Ah, don't tell him that though!" Luke really liked to compare the different characters to the people he knows, but when there actually were a cat called Lucifer he was quite surprised...who would want their cute pet to be called like a demon? Why not call them angel names? Michael is a pretty cool name...

over the time you became more and more tired and Simeon seemed to notice, suggesting on stopping for today and continuing another time, but Luke convinced you two of one more movie

unfortunately you didn't last the final movie and fell asleep cuddled underneath the blanket between Simeon and Luke

Luke took some time to notice, only seeing it when he turned to you wanting to tell you his opinion about the last scene

"Oh! Simeon... Mc fell asleep..." Simeon already knew, as you had fallen onto his shoulder, not that he minded, he just told Luke to stay quiet and watch the rest of the movie

Luke cuddled up to you to keep you warm and occasionally glanced at you to make sure you were okay, and there cuddled next to you he as well fell asleep...trapping Simeon underneath your combined weight, making it impossible for Simeon to get out of the bed, so you three just slept together that night

"Don't worry Mc! I'll keep all demons away from you while you sleep!"

[starlightrows]

Exactly The Way You Are

Pairing: Modern!Boba Fett x fem!reader 

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: EXPLICIT self body shaming, potential body dysmorphia, hurt/comfort, body worship, oral (f receiving), soft!Boba 

Summary: You’re feeling insecure about your body and start changing how you dress in attempt to hide from your negative feelings. Boba is not having any of it. 

AN: Requested by @otp-lovers   

Every single one of you is beautiful, exactly the way you are

Early spring is not usually the optimal time for spending the day at the beach. It’s still too cold to swim, and at times too cloudy to tan. But if you’re heading to the coast to enjoy some fresh air, listen to the waves crash on the beach, and enjoy a bowl of clam chowder it’s perfect! You and two of your girl friends decided to drive out for the day to get some lunch, take a nice long walk and catch up on life. Normally you would have liked to do a day trip like this in the company of your boyfriend Boba, but he’s been exceptionally busy with work the last couple days. 

“You’re tempting me to play hooky and just go with you in that sundress baby,” he pauses by the door taking the time to rake his eyes over your form. 

“You could, I don’t think the girls would mind,” you smile sweetly batting your eyelashes for him knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to say yes. You just wanted to tease him. He groans in response, but shakes his head, also knowing he is not at liberty to accept your offer. So instead he tells you to go enjoy yourself, say hello to your friends for him. 

The drive down to the coast is pleasant with good music, your friends singing and talking and laughing, and the weather is actually even nicer than you expected. And there isn’t even a line to get into your favorite restaurant in the area. After a lovely lunch you and your friends take off your shoes and walk down the beach to dip your toes in the water. 

There are a couple groups of people sunbathing, children splashing in the water, playing volleyball. It’s like summer has come early, you almost wish you’d worn your swimsuit. You and your friends decide to kick off your shoes and wade in the water a bit and take some pictures together. Another group of girls a little ways down the beach also taking pictures and laughing approach your group asking if one of you would be willing to take some group pictures on them, and that they would be happy to return the favor. 

As your friend took one of the girls phones to take some nice group pictures, you stand off to the side and can’t help but stare. These girls all have gorgeous hair, long sleek legs, flat tummies with belly rings, and perky full breasts. Not a blemish on their perfectly tanned skin, though you suspected their tans may be less than authentic given the current time of year. Still you couldn’t help comparing yourself, you felt a bit pudgy in your sundress wishing you had ordered something lighter for lunch, and mentally cursing the wind for blowing your dress around you and making you look bigger and more awkward as opposed to windswept and attractive like these girls. You think about the upcoming summer, and your collection of swimsuits at home… true they’re pretty and comfortable but you wish you could wear and feel confident in the kind of swimsuits these girls are wearing. 

The other group of girls finished up their pictures and you tried your best to appear confident and unbothered when they turned the camera on you and your friends. You didn’t want to bring down the mood, so you plastered on a smile and tried to laugh along with your friends for the remainder of the trip. 

After dropping off your friends you head home, anxious to take a shower and get the sand off of your body. Unfortunately you knew Boba would not be home until very late, so it would just be you for a bit. Oh well, that just means watching whatever you want on tv with no complaint. You shower and wash your hair, taking your time to fully feel clean. Stepping out of the shower and ringing out your hair, you feel a lot better now that there wasn’t sad in places it should not be. 

You cross into the bedroom and slip one of your favorite nighties on to relax for the evening, but when you turn around and catch sight of yourself in the full length mirror you stop and stare at your reflection. You frowned at yourself, turning to your side to catch a glimpse of your profile and finding it no better in your opinion. You turn away from yourself and remove the nighty tossing it unceremoniously onto the chair at your vanity table. Instead you dig out an oversized t-shirt and a pair of Boba’s sweatpants. You look back at yourself in the mirror and shrug your shoulders… good enough… before heading back out into the living room to put on some mindless tv and waste time on instagram and tik tok. 

That was a horrible idea. You spent hours down the social media spiral, looking at pictures and videos of seemingly perfect people with perfect lives and perfect bodies that always seemed to know the perfect thing to say. It made you sick to your stomach. Eventually you fall asleep laying on the couch with the tv still playing. By the time Boba gets home you’re lightly snoring and your arm is hanging off the side of the couch. He chuckles at finding you in such a disheveled state, but takes care to carefully lift you up off the couch and carry you to bed. 

In the morning you wake up to the sounds of him moving around in the bedroom, though he is trying very hard to be quiet and not wake you up. He notices you stirring and returns to the bed to sit next to you. He’s fully dressed, ready to head out again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, stroking your hair. You smile sleepily at him, and mumble some kind of greeting. “I’m just about to head out. I’ll be home late again tonight, try to go to bed before you pass out on the couch,” he teases. You scrunch up your nose and nuzzle your cheek into his hand. 

He leans down and gives you a kiss on the forehead, “Only a couple more days of these long shifts baby. You’ll have me all to yourself again come this weekend,” 

“Good,” you murmur “I don’t like going to bed by myself,” 

He chuckles again, and gives your three more little kisses before saying goodbye and leaving the bedroom. It’s still pretty early and you went to bed very late last night, so you rolled over and went back to sleep for another hour or two. When you do get up to start your day, you find that your closet full of dresses, skirts, and generally fun cute outfits does not bring you the usual joy of picking out one to wear. The thought of showing off your figure makes you feel anxious and unwell, so instead you opt for a pair of comfortable joggers and another baggy t-shirt.

The day passes by slowly going about your errands and daily chores getting less work done than you would have liked. You feel a little blah, and just can’t seem to shake off the brain fog that’s plaguing you. You eat dinner by yourself, and turn in early for the night once again wearing Boba’s clothes that are far too big for you. He likes it when you wear them anyway. At some point in the night, Boba comes home and happily slides into bed next to you to catch what little sleep he can before getting up for an early start once more. This time he’s already gone when you wake up, but you can tell he’s been around. His clothes are in the laundry basket, and there’s a coffee cup in the sink. 

To your delight, there is another cup of coffee poured sitting in the refrigerator chilling. You happily mix in ice and creamer, thinking about how lucky you are to have a boyfriend that takes that extra step for you. One of his many little ways to let you know he loves you. It lifts your spirits a bit, but not enough to shake you from standing naked in front of your closet glaring at your clothes. They offend your eyes, and make you long for things you shouldn’t. So you settle for another haphazard outfit that hides your figure, and dampens your mood. 

The day passes you by though you are able to be a least a little more productive than yesterday. You start the laundry, and wash the dishes. Call to reschedule your dentist appointment, and even get in a couple hours of actual work for your job. But this looming cloud of distraction and general sadness prevails, and you don’t get to many of the other things on your list for the day. As you get ready for bed, wearing Boba’s clothes for the third night in a row you took comfort in the knowledge that tomorrow when you woke up, Boba would be there and he would not have to go to work. Surely that would make you feel better. 

In the morning you happily roll over and cuddle into Boba’s warm chest. You had made a reservation for the two of you to go to brunch, but that isn’t until 10:30am so that leaves plenty of time to snuggle. Lazy kisses and whispered good mornings shared across the pillows and under the sheets. Eventually though you do both get up and get ready to go out for the day. You choose a pair of jeans and a nice-ish t-shirt that you tuck in, you feel a little better than you have the last few days and take the time to do your hair and makeup. 

Boba turns when he hears you coming towards the living room, and he has to put in real effort not to let his face show his concern when he observes your somewhat drab outfit you’ve chosen. You never give up an opportunity to get dressed up cute, especially when he’s taking you out on a date. 

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, extending a hand out for you to take, you accept his hand but feel your anxiety rising in your throat and burning your cheeks. 

“Yeah… I’m sorry, I can put on one of mine if it bothers you,” you drop your gaze and shift uncomfortably. Boba is unsure of what to make of this, so he proceeds cautiously.

“Hm… how about that blue dress? The navy one you like so much,” he suggests running his thumbs over your knuckles and swinging your arm just a little to get your attention. But you keep your gaze fixed on his shoes, and give your head a little shake.

“I… don’t want to wear that one today,” you say, pulling your hand away. Now he’s really concerned, you were fine when you woke up this morning, what changed. 

“Sweetheart you love that dress, what’s wrong?” he asks 

“It’s nothing I just… I just don’t feel particularly dressy at the moment” you admit, rubbing your arm and still making every effort not to look at him. 

“And why’s that?” he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts your head up, forcing you to look at him “Come on kitten, there are no secrets between us,” 

Your lip quivers a bit, you don’t want to verbalize what’s been bothering you. But his eyes are so tender and concerned, and his grip on your chin is insistent and firm. So you relent. 

“I spent too long on instagram looking at influencers and celebrities, and me and the girls took some pictures for another group of girls at the beach the other day. They were all so beautiful with their flat stomachs, perfect tans, and full breasts. I’m sure they work hard to look that way, and I’m sure they have their own insecurities, but I look at them and I think… why can’t I look like that?”

“I don’t want you to look like them” he says 

“What?” you jerk your head back just a little and look up at him. 

“I don’t want you to look like anyone else in the world, I want you to look like you. Exactly the way you are” he slides his hands under your shirt, pulling it out from where its been tucked into your jeans, settling on your hips. He takes a step closer and dips his head down to kiss each of your cheeks. 

“I want you to wear whatever clothes you like, especially the sweet little dresses I know you love so much,” be begins pressing kisses down your neck, and sliding his hands down over your ass. “I want you to know that you’re my girl. My absolutely gorgeous, perfect girl” 

He’s leading you back into the bedroom, walking you backwards slowly and carefully, whispering praises into the skin of your neck between hot kisses. The backs of your knees hit the edge of bed, and you lower yourself down onto it. 

Your hands rest on his sides smoothing over his soft tummy through his shirt, you think about his body. It doesn’t fit society's view of an ideal man, not overly muscled, spray tanned and polished. In the same way you’re not like the models and celebrities you’d been comparing yourself to. 

He pushes you down by the shoulder, coaxing you to lay down as he runs his big hands up and down your sides, dipping down under your shirt and reaching up to palm your breasts. His rough thumbs brush over the quickly stiffening peaks of your nipples. His lips drag over your jaw and you moan at his ministrations. 

“Babe,” you manage to get out, “we’re gonna miss our reservations,” 

He releases his hold on your nipples, and strips off your shirt. He hikes you up higher on the bed, and captures your lips in an insistent kiss. 

“Don’t care,” he growls, “this is more important,” he licks a stripe from your chin all the way down your neck and sucks a mark between your breasts. His fingers work to rid you of your bra. When it’s been discarded somewhere into the room, he turns his attention back to your nipples and takes one into his mouth and suckles on it, rolling the other between his fingers. Your soft moans and wandering hands encourage him, and he switches to your other nipple. 

After a minute or two he releases your nipple from his mouth, and comes back up to recapture your lips. His hands trail down, fingers dipping into the waistline of your jeans. He breaks the kiss, as he undoes the button and zipper of your jeans pulling them down slowly over your ass. You kick them the rest of the way off and spread your legs a bit so he can settle comfortably between them.  

“Your cute little dresses usually make this a lot faster, princess. But I don’t mind taking my time,” he rasps. Your breath hitches as he slides your panties down, and drops his head down in between your thighs. His breath ghosts over your core, already beginning to get a bit wet in anticipation. His hands rub up and down the outsides of your thighs as he begins peppering gentle kisses over the soft skin of your inner thighs. Climbing higher and higher until he reaches your lower lips. 

Without warning his tongue darts out and splits your lips, licking a broad stripe up from the bottom and stopping at your clit to latch on and begin sucking. His tongue continues prodding in and out as he devours your wet cunt. His hands cup your ass and squeeze, pulling you apart further. Your chest is heaving and your mind feels like it’s narrowing in on the building feeling of your impending orgasm. 

“Boba,” you gasp out “I-- I’m gonna cum… I-” 

He doesn't answer in words, he growls into your aching cunt and moves his tongue faster to get you over the edge. Your orgasm is blinding in its intensity, sending your mind reeling as your choke out strangled cries of pleasure. As you’re coming down from your high, Boba releases your swollen clit from his lips and kisses his way back up to you, dragging his hands up with him. He whispers the sweetest words into your skin.   

“Mmm you’re my girl. My sweet, perfect girl. I’ll spend the rest of my days showing you how perfect you truly are,”

[adhdeancas]

Dean Winchester (and the script leaks last night) possessed me to write this.

Dean happens upon Chuck's latest book: Carry On. Except it ends differently than it really went, and the ending? It's really fucking bad.

tw: suicide mention, transphobia (quickly shut the fuck down) 

Dean doesn’t make a habit of going to bookstores. Not because he hates books, contrary to what Sam might think; he just prefers to buy used books. There’s something comforting about a book that has already been worn and read over and over, that already shows how much the previous owner loved it. Plus, y’know, big corporations are evil and all that. And Dean only allows himself to overlook that when his stomach or his wallet wins over his hatred of the shitty mass-produced products. 

This time it was Jack who won; he’s obsessed with this new fantasy series and the new book just came out, so there’s no way he can hunt it down on Ebay. He makes his way to the fantasy and sci-fi section, eyes roaming over the displays of new releases, and his eye catches on something that turns his blood cold. 

“Supernatural: Carry On, The Final Book of the Winchesters’ Epic Journey” takes up a whole table, the generic and overly serious cover jeering out at him. 

He storms over to the display, anger covering up for the way his body feels light as a feather and like lead all at once, and picks up a book. “Why is Sam always fucking shirtless?” he mutters, the only thought that allows itself from the mess inside his head to his mouth. 

“Book sales.” A voice behind him says. He turns to see a teenager with their arms crossed over their work polo, pierced lip fixed into a customer-unfriendly frown.

“People want to see that?”

They snort, a small grin turning up the corner of their lips. It reminds Dean of Cas. “No. But that’s what advertisers think all ‘women’ want,” They use air quotes. 

He raises an eyebrow and asks. “Women?”

They shrug and uncross their arms, leaning back against the display table behind them. Their nametag says Jadyn. “Supernatural’s biggest block of readers is queer. I’d go out on a limb and say a lot of those the marketers think of as ‘women’ aren’t, or if they are, they aren’t itching to see Sam’s six pack.” Jadyn smirks. 

Dean takes a second to digest that, then grins down at the book, thinking past Sam’s apparently badly-received nudity now. “So how’d they like it?” he asks, waving the book a bit and looking up at Jadyn. Apparently they know a lot about the fans of the books, and for once, he’s proud of the way the story ended. 

Jadyn’s face sets into all hard lines. “Most people fucking hated it.” they say bluntly, then, probably remembering that he’s a customer, correct. “Sorry. I mean, it got some good reviews, mostly from people who like Wincest, but beyond that, it had some problematic plot points.”

Dean winces at the reminder of the ship between him and his brother, then scrunches his whole face together in confusion. “Wait, what? Why?” Why would Wincest fans like it? What was problematic about their end?

Jadyn shifts from foot to foot. “I don’t wanna spoil anything for you-”

“I don’t care about spoilers, just give me the short version.” Dean says quickly. A quiet panic is rising in him, and suddenly he has a horrible feeling that he’s not holding the truth in his hands anymore. 

“Uh, okay… Well, the most obvious thing is the bury-your-gays thing, then there’s the fact that it completely contradicted the rest of the lore. And it was ableist, misogynistic, and messed up, like, every character’s arc.” they take a breath, clearly worked up by it. “Even if they changed any of the details too, it was all built on Dean’s death, and that’s just bullshit. Sorry.” they apologize again, apparently mistaking Dean’s stricken expression to be in reaction to their rant and swearing. 

“No, nah, you’re… you’re okay. Uh, thanks.” he waves a hand and wanders away from them, only remembering Jack’s book when he’s almost to the register. He manages to make his way back and find the damn thing, but he’s still in a fog when he gets to the register. 

“Did anyone help you in the store today?”

“Huh?” he looks up and meets the middle-aged cashier’s gaze for the first time. Brent, from the nametag, looks at him impatiently. “Oh, yeah, uh… Jadyn. Jadyn helped me.” Brent scoffs and starts typing with a shake of the head. “Uh, is there a problem?” Dean asks, a little annoyed at this cashier’s unnecessary attitude. He usually doesn’t care if an employee’s rude, because they have to deal with assholes all the time and honestly Dean isn’t much better, but this one gives him a bad feeling. 

“No, no, sorry. It’s just - “Jadyn’s” got this idea that he’s a girl. Makes everybody call him that name now too. Just-” Brent shakes his head. “I mean, you get it. Their generation, everybody wants to be special.”

Dean glares. “No, I don’t get it, Brent.” He says through gritted teeth. “Seems to me like Jadyn probably deals with enough assholes like you that her asking for a little basic decency is the exact opposite of special. Sounds pretty normal, actually.” He can see the fear creep into Brent’s eyes, and he knows the cashier is reacting to the murderous look in his eyes more than his actual words. 

Brent hands Dean his bag of books with a quiet, “Here you go.”

Dean snatches it away. “Oh, Brent?” he checks over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone and then leans across the counter into Brent’s space. “You should find a new job, one where you don’t have to interact with other people. At least until you learn how to stop being a piece of shit.” He starts to ease away but thinks better about it. “And if you think that’s a suggestion, it’s not. My husband likes this book coming out next month that I’ll need to buy, and if I see you here when I come, well… it would be really embarrassing for you to tell all your little friends that you got your ass beat by a ‘special’ guy, huh?” He pats Brent on the cheek condescendingly and leaves with a huff. 

Damn transphobes. 

He only remembers the book once he’s back in Baby, and he takes the time to drive out of town before he pulls over to read it. It’s an old abandoned church, the cross long since fallen from the roof and the doors hanging off their hinges. He sits on the steps just because being in Baby seems claustrophobic for once in his life, and going back to the bunker to look at this is just… not happening.

Dean only skims the beginning to see that it starts the same. The ground erupting with bodies, hell spitting out its most-conveniently placed nasties, Rowena sacrificing herself, Cas leaving. His throat closes up at that, at Chuck’s description of Cas’s heartbroken expression as he climbs the stairs of the bunker. He clears his throat and skips to the end, right past Cas’s death that he doesn’t have the time to think about right now, past them defeating Chuck and then stops. He goes back a few pages, trying to find the disconnect. 

The story’s different.

After Jack takes on God’s power, in the book, he’s totally fine. Not almost vibrating out of his skin or anything, not crying like the three year old he is because he’s scared. Not like it really happened. He just smiles and leaves him and Sam, and they let him go. 

Dean scoffs, skimming over the story as it just gets more ridiculous. 

In the book, he doesn’t even try to save Cas. They barely even mention him. And they never mention Eileen, either. In fact, Dean notes disbelievingly, practically the only characters in the last few chapters are him and Sam. They’re hunting again.

“What, is Chuck trying to keep the series going?” he whispers to himself, anger flaring through him. They let Chuck live, and he decided to write obnoxious fanfiction about them? He’s gonna kill that shameless little fucker. For real, this time. He deserves it.

In the book, Sam and Dean torture some vampire mime, and they enjoy it. Dean cringes; this is really what Chuck thinks of them. Then they tussle with more vamps in a barn and- 

Dean’s brain stops working. He rereads the scene again and again. 

“There’s something in my… something in my back. It feels like it’s right through me.” 

Dean Winchester dies in a dirty barn, on a piece of freaking rebar. 

More than that, Dean realizes on his fourth read-through. This Dean? He tried to drag out his speech, Dean can tell by the way he pauses for fucking drama. He would never do that. He would never talk to Sam for fifteen hellish minutes when he could be trying. Trying to live, so he can actually get his life back on track, get his family back. No, he made that speech stalling. He made that speech so Sam wouldn’t try to save him. 

“You gotta admit, I had one helluva ride.” He was strangely calm.

Chuck made him kill himself.

Dean reads the rest of the book through blurry eyes, reading an ambiguous and nothing-ending, one where he’s somehow happy to be dead and driving around in heaven alone while Sam raises a kid into hunting and cries about Dean decades after he’s died. Eileen isn’t mentioned. Cas is mentioned once, and Bizzarro-Dean doesn’t even think about seeing him, apparently. The whole book ends with a hug between him and Sam, both dead. Both alone. 

Dean rips the ending up. He tears through the stupid paper covering and keeps ripping the pages up until they’re the size of confetti. His lower lip wobbles. He throws the whole thing against the side of the building, and it tumbles through the broken doorway and drops into a pile of dust and dirt. “That isn’t the fucking ending.” he grounds out, knocking his hand against the flimsy handrail. It gives a little under his fist and he kicks at it. “That isn’t the fucking ending!”

He’s having a panic attack. Again. He tries to take deep breaths, but they’re gulping, too big, they’re making him panic more. He scrambles back to Baby and grabs his phone, presses the first number on his favorites list and waits for him to answer on speaker phone.

“Hey Dean, what’s up?” Sam sounds like he’s been laughing. There are voices in the background, and Dean tries to convince himself one of them is Eileen. 

“Hey Sammy.” he chokes out, trying to sound normal. “You busy?”

There’s a pause, and then the sounds in the background. “Nah, Rowena’s just over.” he says casually. 

“So those voices in the background were-”

“Rowena and Eileen, yeah. They’re trying to convince me we need to go to Mexico. For the beaches.” A smile in his voice. Dean lets out a sigh of relief.  What’s up, Dean? You need something?” The smile drops, and Sam’s worried. 

Sam’s okay. Sam’s okay. “No, nah. Hey, you heard from Donna lately?” Dean just needs to triple-check.

“Uh, no, not since Sunday dinner… Dean, you okay?”

“Yeah, she just- she hasn’t been answering my texts. Just wanted to make sure.” Dean lies quickly. His breathing is still uneven, but his body is settling into uneven shakes. 

Sam sounds skeptical. “Yeah, well, she did tell us it’s been pretty busy at work lately. Y’know, everybody going out for the first time with COVID, getting stupid. Plus, y’know, nowhere’s drowning in EMTs right now.”

“Right. Yeah.” Dean takes a deep breath, a distant memory of Donna talking about that coming back to him.

“Pretty sure you were setting up a D&D session with Charlie while she was talking about that,” Sam laughs. Dean knows he means it as a subtle jab, but there’s too much relief flooding through him to care. Still, a string is pulled taut in him, and Sam can’t fix that completely.

“Gotta go, Sam,” Dean hangs up before Sam can say anything else, and goes to his next contact. It rings for far too long, and Dean’s heartbeat picks back up to thundering.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean breathes out. “Cas, you know I love you, right?” He needs to test all the bounds of this, to make sure, just to make sure. Make sure Chuck isn’t still fucking with him. Because apparently, Chuck won’t let him be queer. Not in his story. Not out loud.

He can hear Cas’s eyebrow raise through the phone, and his chest is overcome with stupid fondness. “I would be a little worried if you didn’t.”

Dean grins widely. “Like, romantically. I’m in love with you. Because you’re the love of my life and I’m bisexual.” He says it all like it’s a checklist, like he expects some cosmic being to slap a hand over his mouth before he gets each next phrase out.

“Yes, Dean. We’ve been married almost two months.” Cas is smiling. It happens everytime he talks about their wedding. Dean adores it. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, now it is.” His whole body relaxes, still vibrating with leftover panic, but satisfied. “I got Jack’s book.”

“Oh, good. He’ll be so pleased.” Cas pauses. “Dean, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Dean eases off the ground and sends a last look at the dilapidated church before climbing into Baby. “Just- read a bad book. I’ll tell you about it later. When I get home.”

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Take Care (Ethan x MC)

Summary: Set sometime between chapter 18, Ethan forces Naomi to take a break.

A/N: Okay the other day when I posted that i was writing tooth rotting fluff, this isn’t what I had in mind. That story will come later this week.

~v~

“How long have you been here?”

The question startles Naomi awake, Ethan’s stern voice cutting through the hazy cloud of sleepiness invading all of her senses.

If she didn’t have his handsome features committed to memory already, she might not have been able to make him out, her vision getting blurrier and blurrier as time ticks on.

“What?”

“How long have you been here?” Ethan asks again. “When was the last time you stepped out of Edenbrook?”

It’s a valid question, one Naomi hasn’t given any thought to. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“I’ve been here since Saturday night,” Naomi confesses. Saying it out loud is slightly sobering. The past few weeks have flown by in a blur so unlike anything she’s ever experienced before. But with the hospital closing down soon, there’s no time to waste these days. The people of Boston will be down a hospital, and they still need help.

Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Naomi.” Yes the hospital is shutting down, but he’s sure there are countless laws she’s violated in the meantime, as no one is supposed to be at the hospital for triple digit hours at a time.

“What? You’re the one who said we should spend our time helping as many people as we can.”

Leave it to her to throw his words back in his face. She’s gotten increasingly better at it, and he’s not a fan. 

“Okay, but I didn’t say you had to move in to do so. And you’re always saying I don’t have a work-life balance.”

Naomi’s arms extend and she gestures widely to the bench she’s sitting on in front of the cafeteria. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“On the verge of collapsing,” Ethan quips.

“I’m sitting,” Naomi argues. “I’m taking a break.”

“Are you currently with a patient?”

“No.”

“Good.” Ethan extends his hand for Naomi to take. After a beat of hesitation, she accepts. He lifts her out of her seat with a swift tug. “You’re coming home with me.”

“But–”

“It wasn’t a question,” Ethan deadpans. “It was an order.”

Naomi plants her feet on the ground, willing herself to not move. It’s a futile attempt because she’s too exhausted and weak to actually have the amount of strength it’d take to battle Ethan on this, but he respects her stubbornness and doesn’t carry her out. “Ethan, I’ll take a nap in an on-call room for an hour, I don’t need to leave.”

“Rookie, you’re clocking out for the evening,” Ethan says, his tone letting it be known that it isn’t up for debate.

“I’m back to ‘rookie’ now?”

“Yes, because you’re being petulant, and you’re not listening to me.”

“You’re not my direct superior anymore, Mister ‘We-Don’t-Need-a-Diagnostics-Team’.”

“I’m still your attending, you still have to listen to me. And I say you’re done for the day.” Not giving her the chance to respond, Ethan wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. She’s dead weight in his arms and he has to all but drag her to the locker room to retrieve her personal belongings.

Urge car ride to his apartment is silent, save for very idle chit chat. Naomi is too tired to speak, and she won’t admit it due to pure pride and stubbornness, but sitting in Ethan passenger seat on the way to his place is the most peace and quiet she’s had in a long time, not to mention the longest she’s sat still in days. Forever the know-it-all, Ethan picks up on her need for silence and solitude, and doesn’t say too much outside of asking her what she wants for dinner. They decide on a pizza, compromising on garlic chicken.

As soon as they step foot into the apartment, Naomi is assaulted by an overzealous golden retriever. He barks excitedly at her, clawing and licking at her scrub pants as a greeting. Jenner has grown used to her presence, the rare occasions she does actually leave Edenbrook are spent here, curled up with the large dog on the days he’s not in Providence with Alan.

“How’s my favorite boy?” Naomi asks, scratching behind Jenner’s ear. Jenner barks in reply, his tongue falling out of his mouth and lolling to the side as she makes himself comfortable under her touch. 

After a few more scritches and whispered affirmations, Naomi forces herself away from the day, though she could easily spend all night with him in the entryway. She kicks off her shoes at the door and drops her purse there as well.

“Do you want to eat first?” Ethan asks.

The pizza did tempt her the entire drive here, but she desperately wants to take a shower. Maybe she’s losing it at this point, but she can still feel Edenbrook on her skin, and smell the sterilizing disinfectant the cleaning crew uses.

“I need a shower,” Naomi replies definitively, though she makes no effort to move. “Besides, scarfing down cold pizza is always a good idea.”

“Alright.”

Ethan takes her hand and leads her through his apartment, making sure she doesn’t bump into anything on their way to his en-suite

He turns on the water for her, the large waterfall shower steaming the glass planes almost instantly.

“Want some company?” Ethan asks.

“That sounds nice.”

Because she’s literally a zombie, Ethan helps Naomi out of her clothing, delicately peeling the baby blue scrubs off of her body and leaving a pile of discarded clothing on the floor. He follows, removing his own clothing with less care than he did hers, before walking them both into the shower.

For a long time neither of them do anything, Naomi too caught up in the heat of the water and Ethan’s amazing water pressure, and Ethan too enthralled in watching her.

Her skill is slightly pale, evidence that she probably hasn’t had proper sleep or food in Lord only knows how long, and he hasn’t seen dark circles under her eyes like this in months, since the night of the...incident as he’s decided to call it. She’s exhausted, it’s clear in the labored breaths that she takes, and Ethan is still sure without a shadow of a doubt that she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Unable to stop himself, his hand gently cups the back of her neck, tilting her head back so he can kiss her again. It’s soft and unhurried as if they have all the time in the world to do this.

The kiss turns more urgent as some of the fog clears from Naomi’s brain. Standing on the tips of her toes, she wraps her arms around of Ethan’s neck holding him close, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

Ethan is rewarded with a tiny moan from his girlfriend, a moan that he swallows with the kiss before it dissolves into a low grumble in the back of her throat.

“I missed that,” Naomi admits as Ethan breaks the kiss. 

“What? Kissing me?”

She hums in confirmation and leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss onto his chest. “I can’t even remember the last time I kissed you. The only recent memories I have involve me at Edenbrook, diagnosing patients.”

She’s right. Their only focus has been work, work, work, and Ethan can’t remember the last kiss either.

His thoughts are broken up by Naomi, her hands roaming aimlessly along his arms and shoulders. Her exploration goes further south until her nails are raking along his stomach. “When was the last time I touched you?” She asks quietly, her eyes boring into his. “When was the last time I saw you naked?”

A measured exhale escapes Ethan’s nostrils as her hands venture dangerously lower, slightly grazing his pelvis. If neither of them can recall their last kiss, trying to remember the last time they had sex would be a moot point. The nights they leave Edenbrook are spent collapsing in his bed as soon as they can, drifting into unconsciousness almost immediately. “I don’t know.”

“God, have we become old and boring already?”

“We’re just tired and overworked,” Ethan says. “It’ll pass soon.”

The words unspoken hang in the air, just as thick and heavy as the steam surrounding them. Soon they’ll have plenty of time to get back into the normal aspects of their relationship only because they’ll both be unemployed. Edenbrook will be gone before they know it.

Not wanting to dwell on that, Ethan shakes his head as if he will away the cynical thoughts. Instead, he grabs Naomi’s hands, holding them tight to his chest. “We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“Really? Something begs to differ.” With a raised eyebrow, Naomi looks down curiously at the evidence of Ethan’s arousal, comfortable nestled between the two of them. Before she can reach down and touch him, Ethan shakes his head.

“I have the most beautiful woman, naked and wet in front of me. This was inevitable, but it’ll go away.”

“I can make it go away.”

“Mhmm-hmmm. Turn around, Valentine.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. How this woman always finds the space and opportunity to flirt with him is a mystery. Lining the walls of his shower are all of Naomi’s bath and shower products. He’s always making fun of her for being a product hoarder, though she insists everything is different—he’s been schooled on the differences between regular, leave-in, and deep conditioner, creams vs gels, body scrubs and shower gels many times and he still doesn’t see a need for it all. 

Grabbing her favorite shampoo, Ethan pours a generous amount into the palm of her hand before gently running it through her strands of hair. He’s seen her wash her hair enough times to know the bare bones of her routine. Very careful of her curls, he makes sure to not roughly drag his fingers through her hair and risk creating a tangled disaster for her to handle later on.

Her head tips back. “Can I pay you to wash my hair from now on? I never want to go back to doing it myself.”

A swell of pride forms in his chest at the compliment. “No payment needed.”

Once he’s finished washing her hair and he’s coated it in conditioner —she insists on leave-in, as she doesn’t have the energy to put my more effort into her hair for the evening—Ethan lathers her in one of her shower gels, whichever one makes her smell like jasmine.

He moves slower as he does this, pressing his thumb into the base of her neck, massaging away some of the stress she’s carrying. His hands dig into her shoulders, between her shoulder blades, and her lower back, loosening the muscles as he goes.

Naomi doesn’t attempt to stop the moans fighting to spill from her mouth, no matter how obscene they sound. The relief that bloods her body is instant, his touch working out knots she wasn’t even aware of.

“You’re a great doctor, you cook, and you're an excellent masseuse?” Naomi sighs in content. “What can’t you do?”

“I told you I make it my mission to be good at everything.”

“I’m going to find your weakness one day, Ramsey.”

She’s his weakness, his Achilles heel, and Ethan can’t believe she doesn’t know it already. There’s no end of the earth he wouldn’t go to for her, no hoop he wouldn’t jump through, his feelings for her his fateful flaw and his greatest strength all in one.

He kisses her again, this time on the side of her neck. His breath fans her, heating the sensitive skin as he leans closer. “Good luck.”

He continues the massage in silence, careful to keep his touch away from places that would no doubt cause this to spiral into shower sex. And as lovely as that sounds, it’s not what Naomi needs, so he’s willing to forego his baser urges. Every once in a while she makes a comment about how amazing his hands are, but for the most part she’s blissfully silent.

He doesn’t stop with the massage until he’s absolutely sure she’s putty in his hands and all of the knots and spots of tension are gone. Even afterwards, they stay in the shower, his arm splayed across her midsection, his chin resting on top of her head.

“I don’t want to move,” Naomi says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m too comfortable right here. Can we just stay?”

Ethan chuckles softly to himself. “We can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Well, the steam in here might actually suffocate us if we stay in here any longer,” Ethan starts. “And I’m not a fan of wasting water.”

“It’s not a waste if I’m enjoying it.”

“Touché. Not to mention your skin will get very dry, and you’ll be much more comfortable in my bed.”

“Okay, I guess you’ve made some valid points. We can leave now.”

She doesn’t make any effort to move, and Ethan quickly realizes he’s going to have to do all the work to get her out of here. He turns off the shower and opens the door, quickly inhaling. He didn’t realize how much he needed air until he was no longer in that glass box of steam.

He grabs two large bath towels off of the rack and dries them off. Naomi searches his countertop, now covered in her makeup and hair products until she finds a satin scrunchie to tie up her still damp hair.

They both meander back into Ethan’s bedroom, and Naomi searches through one of his spare drawers for something to wear. It’s full of her clothes, and a few items of his that she’s stolen over the past few months; a t-shirt here, a pair of socks there.

Once she’s bundled up in some of the warmest clothes she can find, Ethan ushers her into bed.  “Are you ready for your pizza now?”

A stubborn yawn manages to slip out as she shakes her head. “No. I’ll get some before I head to work in the morning.”

“You’re not going to work tomorrow,” Ethan says.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re taking a much needed break tomorrow,” he continues. “I admire your tenacity, but I’m not going to let you work yourself to the bone and neglect your own needs in your very noble quest to help everyone in Boston. You won’t do Edenbrook any good if you collapse due to exhaustion.”

“But I–”

“I’m not asking you, Naomi, I’m telling you.” Despite his tone, a pleasant shiver runs down the length of her spine. “You’re staying here with me.”

She almost always has the upper hand in their arguments or debates, but Naomi can tell there’s no room for her to argue with him on this one. He won’t let her win.

“Okay,” she concedes. “No work tomorrow.”

Smug that he’s won this round, Ethan triumphantly slides into bed, wrapping an arm around Naomi, keeping her trapped with him. Unlike her, he didn’t put on any clothes, only a pair of boxers, but now Naomi is able to revel in his natural body heat.

He runs a thumb along her cheek, caressing her softly before kissing her forehead. “I am incredibly proud of you.”

“Really?”

“You’re an excellent doctor, and trust me when I say you’ve done more for this community that I’ll ever be able to put into words. And despite the hospital closing soon, I hope you realize the impact you’ve made in your two years here.”

Naomi nods, her throat getting thick with emotion. She’ll never be used to Ethan complimenting her like this. “I wish I could do more.”

“We all do. But at the end of the day, you’re still a human and you can only do so much.” Ethan’s hand moves from her face to her neck, his thumb tracing a pattern along her pulse. “I don’t want you to crash and burn, and best yourself up over something so completely out of your control.”

“Who are you and what have you done to Ethan Ramsey?” Naomi teases. She never thought she’d live to see a day where he’s scolding her for working too much and trying too hard.

“I’ve done a lot of reflecting recently, mostly due to you. If there’s any lesson you’ve taught me, it’s that there’s only so much I’m in control of.”

“Any other lessons or tokens of wisdom I’ve imparted on you.”

“You’ve taught me how to be more patient than I knew was possible,” Ethan replies. Naomi rolls her eyes at the slight teasing. “You’ve taught me how to see the world’s grey area. You taught me the true meaning of trust and forgiveness. You’ve shown me endless compassion and empathy, none that I’ll ever be able to repay in this lifetime or the next. I was your attending, your mentor, but trust me when I say you’ve taught me more than I could ever teach you, about medicine and life in general. So thank you.”

Maybe it’s the pure exhaustion or his really sweet words, but her eyes become wide and glossy with unshed tears. She blinks them away, not wanting to cry.

Instead she leans forward and pulls him into another kiss. She doesn’t know if she can convey the full extent of her love and adoration for him with a simple kiss, but Naomi’s never been the type to not try. When she pulls back, she rests her head against his chest, settling in comfortably.

“Thank you. For the kind words, and for taking care of me tonight. I’ve never had someone be as thoughtful as you.”

“I’ll always take care of you,” Ethan promises. He’ll give her the world if he can. “You just have to stop being so stubborn and let me do it.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying.”

“Now get some sleep,” Ethan commands. “Tomorrow, I’ll actually cook you a real meal. Not any of the garbage they serve at the hospital, and no more takeout, but–”

He stops short when he hears a soft snore fill the room. Looking down he sees that Naomi has managed to doze off in the mere seconds he was talking.

He’s never been so happy to watch someone sleep, as no one deserves it more than she does. He plants one final kiss on the crown of her head. “Goodnight, Naomi.”

~v~

Tags: @professorkingslay @nikki-2406 @maurine07 @aka-calliope @edgiestwinter @soft-for-drake @greenbean-kylie @akshara16 @bluebellot @honeyandsunfl0wers @blossomanarchy @takemyopenheart @fanmantrashcan @whatchique @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @paulfwesley @the-pale-goddess @writinghereandthere @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramseyx @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @caseyvalentineramsey @desmaranj @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @mvalentine @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.  

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

--

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

--

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

--

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

--

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).  

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.  

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -  

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.  

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”  

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.   

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.  

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.  

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.  

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.  

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

[tg-headcanons]

What about Shirazu's sister's illness? Can you talk about symptoms, treatment and cure? I've always been curious about, ((and I really want to write about, but my knowledge is limited to Grey's anatomy)) and I'm sorry for sending you a bunch of questions XD

ROS! I’ve been meaning to talk about my Headcanons on this! And don’t ever apologize for asks, I love them!

Humans on average have an RC count of between 200-500, when they’re healthy at least. RC cells in humans carry oxygen and help heal over wounds, but are otherwise as overlooked as any other regular bodily function. There’s problems that arise when they produce too little, RC Under Secretion, which causes anemia and slows healing but is not nearly as dangerous. ROS however is very rare and very deadly

Both humans and ghouls produce RC from their bone marrow, but only ghouls have a kakuhou. That kakuhou produces most of their RC and stores the extra that doesn’t fit in the RC pathways or bloodstream. They also have a larger RC pathway system, giving the body more space to contain them. Humans however have a small RC pathway system and no kakuhou, so if they produce more RC, it has nowhere to go

Overproduction is hereditary. If the parents have high RC the kids will likely be as high or higher. Sometimes they overproduce from birth, sometimes the overproduction gene activated after a large injury kicks the cellular reproduction system into overdrive, but whatever causes it, it’s something that needs to be monitored. It’s okay to have a count of 500, high to have a count of 800, but around 1000 is where someone is considered at risk. When it’s caught here it can be stopped, they just take some oral RC suppression supplements. Unfortunately due to artificial scarcity caused by the CCG’s monopoly on production, they’re pretty expensive and a lot of people with high RC just can’t afford it. Usually it’s fine because developing the disorder is rare, but sometimes it isn’t

Once pre-ROS develops into full blown ROS, it’s too late. It first starts causing high blood pressure, RC cells to leak into other bodily fluids, stomach upset, and eventually it starts forming a kagune cyst. You see, with so much RC and no kakuhou to contain and control it, there’s no way to tell it to stop. That cyst keeps getting bigger as more is produced, and eventually the person is weighed down and has such bad brain fog from it that they need to be hospitalized full time

Once someone has ROS, that’s it. It’s a chronic illness, there’s no way to bring RC production down once it reaches this point. It can’t be cured, only kept at bay. It could be fine but of course capitalism strikes again. The CCG’s patent on the process to produce RC suppressants is undisputed and they lie to the public about how much money and time it takes to make, so they can keep the prices high. It’s like insulin on crack, the price is completely unregulated and makes the condition more deadly than it should be.

There are some treatments, but they’re expensive too. Bone marrow transplants from people with low production, blood transfusions, but nothing that changes much. Even removing the kagune cysts doesn’t stop them from coming back

Unbeknownst to the public, there is an effective and affordable treatment, and it’s been practiced for hundreds of years in cultures where humans and ghouls got along before Europe came along and ruined it. It’s sort of like dialysis but with a living ghoul. Hook up a human with ROS’s bloodstream to a ghoul of the same RC type with some IV tubes for awhile and most of the RC will get collected in their kakuhou. Ghoul blood isn’t too harmful to humans and can be safely transplanted into them, so the process works. It’s a mutually beneficial method that helps the human keep their RC down for awhile and the ghoul get more. Sure it doesn’t cure it, but doing it once a month lets them live their lives with few symptoms

After ghouls are decriminalized and the CCG no longer has a monopoly on ghoul research, a massive breakthrough is found. The whole problem with ROS is that they don’t have a kakuhou to contain and control the cells, so just put one in! It’s an invasive surgery and a difficult process, but once it’s done, it’s gone. They can live their lives as healthy ghouls, and these days it isn’t too bad.

As you can imagine, Shirazu was pacing outside of the operating room the whole time his sister was in it, stressed out of his mind. But when she woke up fully aware and with her face already healing, he was so glad he signed off on it. All this ghoul biology still freaks him out sometimes, but his sister is healthy and happy again, and he can bond with her over learning to use their kagune

[artificialqueens]

I'm Not Into Sometimes, Chapter 2 (Rosnali) - SnowBun

A/N: Very proud of this chapter <3 finally feel myself getting back to the writing style I enjoy the most. I hope you like reading this is as much as I like writing it. much love everyone xx

Summary: When Denali goes viral for posting a dance video, she doesn’t expect it to lead her to becoming a choreographer for Rosé, an up and coming singer destined for fame. Denali thinks that this might be her first (and only) shot at achieving her dream. If only her dream wasn’t wrapped up in a flurry of pink hair, charm and a supposedly professional relationship.

—

Release comes in the sound of blades scraping against ice. It is the feeling of her core tightening as she pushes off the ground and becomes the world turning on its axis. She is this moment of weightlessness and control.

Then her head begins to fog with visions of spinning rose-colored tops across a dark wooden floor, so endlessly mesmerizing. Her mind fills with questions of intrigue and challenge, the first time she’s ever seen duality so up close. Oh, to be so breathlessly enamored by beauty and talent.

It’s the loss of focus that weighs her down, causing her to land shakily on her right foot. She extends her left leg for balance and slides not-so-gracefully on the ice. She hears Olivia cheer in the sidelines, all bright white smile and wonder. It brings her back to the rink and away from the studio.

She skates over, pressing her forehead to the fence. “It’s not so bad.” She thinks. The rest of the world is slowly but surely getting hooked on Rosé, and she lives up to every expectation and more. She thinks it’s perfectly normal to feel a little charmed by her.

Even if she was a bitch at first.

“What’s wrong?”

Then again, she can’t quite answer Olivia’s question. She isn’t a fan from half way across the world. She’s the damn choreographer. She’s in New York, seeing her old friends and grasping onto her dream.

Said dream just had to come in the form of pink hair and clear brown eyes.

She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing’s wrong, Liv.”

—

At first, she thinks she’s just so tired that she’s seeing things. When she blinks, she realizes that her eyes aren’t lying and that Rosé really is right there, sitting on the dance studio floor at 6:30 in the morning. She’s staring at intently at her phone, with an expression that can only be described as upset fury. She becomes too absorbed in typing to even notice Denali come in.

“Hey.”

She looks up and her face softens into a small smile. There it goes again, that weird feeling of nakedness that comes with being looked at by those eyes. The combination of this and the lack of sleep is disconcerting, but she manages to smile back anyway.

“Hey.” Rosé procures a coffee cup from behind her and reaches up to pass it. “I got you coffee.”

It takes her a minute to process, way too taken aback by the gesture. She’s always prided herself on being difficult to phase, but when a woman who is basically her employer that she barely knows hands her coffee, it’s hard not to act surprised.

Nonetheless, she accepts it gratefully, muttering a ‘thanks’ as she sits down on the floor beside her.

For a while, she stills as Rosé continues to type with such force that Denali’s scared that she might end up cracking the screen somehow. She wonders in silence, but she’d be lying if she says she’s not tempted to cross the arbitrary line and ask if something is wrong.

“Sorry.” Rosé’s voice suddenly rings clear, but the world around them still feels quiet, tranquil almost. “Just a lot of stuff that needs to get done before the video shoot.”

“Mmm,” Denali says, as she sips her coffee. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Even if the phone has been tucked into the pocket of her bag, Rosé opts for stretching out her legs in front of her and yawning instead of getting up. She turns her head to look at the choreographer whose gaze is directed at the cup in her hand.

“So,” She draws out the word lazily, cocking her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What do you think of Phenomenon?”

It’s a difficult question to answer. If she says something bad, she’s kicked off this project. If she says something good, she’s just kissing ass. She knows that the only right answer to this question is her own opinion, but when her mother told her that honesty is the best policy, she’s not sure this is the situation that she had in mind.

“Honestly?” Rosé nods. “I think it’s great. The lyrics are good, the production is amazing, your vocals are fantastic. Plus it’s your own brand of witty and self-assured. Not sure what’s not to like there.”

She isn’t sure if this was the answer Rosé expected from her. All she hears is a sigh and they sink once again into that comfortable silence while Denali finishes her coffee. She doesn’t really know much, or anything really, about the woman beside her, but in the stillness of the morning, she feels comfortable.

“Right,” Rosé’s voice is soft and she hates herself for the ache that starts to bloom in her chest. “What’s not to like?”

She tries to ignore it, that stupid idea that this true vulnerability and not just small talk between colleagues; but she sees those eyes staring into the empty space, watches the beams of sunlight give her a blush halo. The ache spreads through her body and she bites her tongue to stop from begging to know what she could possibly not like.

Denali stands up and throws away her cup in a bin in the corner of the room. “Anyway,” She reaches out a hand to help her up. “We should get to work.”

Rosé smirks up at her and she thinks that the ache is threatening to cause an implosion. “Oh, so she’s all work and no play, huh?” She says, grabbing at her hand.

Then they’re face to face and Denali can feel the tug, that back and forth that comes with the competition that is flirting. She laughs a little, tries her best to play it cool. “I have to work hard if I want to play hard, don’t I?”

She walks away with a pair of eyes on her back and an ache that won’t go away.

—

“Are you going to spill all the tea now or what?”

Her eyebrows raise behind the glass of vodka cranberry that she’s holding. Of course, Mik wants to get straight to the gossip. She’d be surprised with any other conversation starter to their Friday night, almost a week since she’d arrived in New York. The bar Mik chose is a little too crowded for her taste, filled with other women who have been eyeing her. She notices but she ignores it in favor of the woman in front of her.

“What happened to ‘how have you been, Denali?’ or ‘how’s New York, Denali?’”

“Okay whatever,” Mik rolls her eyes. “How are you?”

“Tired.” She answers in a heartbeat.

“And would that have anything to do with a certain singer whose name rhymes with… shit, I can’t think of anything.”

She purses her lips together. If she’s honest, working with Rosé is probably the least tiring thing on her agenda. The ice skating in the early evenings as a bid to tire herself to sleep hasn’t been working. All its led to is sleepless nights staring at the ceiling until she sees the first vestiges of day creep through the windows, signaling another turn on the earth’s axis.

In the studio with Rosé, she can at the very least find some peace. The understanding that they are both good at what they do and the comfort of knowing that each day with her is a chance to know her more drives her to get out of bed and into the studio.

“A part of it, yeah.” It’s the tiniest bit of truth and Mik doesn’t look one bit sated by it. “What else am I supposed to tell you?”

“Oh, come on,” It’s that signature Mik whine that finally gets a laugh out of her. “You have to tell me something, anything!”

“You’re an MUA that works with runway models. You know enough famous people as it is.”

“That doesn’t make me any less curious about them.”

She bites her tongue when she hears those words. It’s not like she’s any different. Every morning with Rosé is an established routine with coffee and curiosity on both ends. The existing respect for each other’s craft makes them both wonder about the person underneath.

So, they start to ask questions. How’s New York? Where’d you get the coffee? How’s your morning? What’s the name of that guy on TV who used to host Fear Factor and is a shithead now?

Like clockwork, the questions morph into flirting. It’s standard, innocent, verging on comfortable even. Rosé is always the first to break into a blush, true to her name. At times, Denali thinks that she may have gone too far, but then she sees those eyes again, all amusement and interest. Each interaction is a chance for the ache to spread somewhere new along with the growing assurance that there’s nothing to dislike.

“I don’t know, okay?” She finally lets out. “We work great together and we get along, but it’s not like, ‘ooo, you’re my new bestie’ or anything like that.”

“Hmm,” Mik lets out a him, popping the straw out of her mouth. “That’s interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“Let’s just say my sources tell me she doesn’t get along with everyone.”

Her eyebrows scrunch together at that. Sure, she understands that Rosé isn’t exactly everyone’s glass of wine, especially with the cold seriousness that she handles her music, but she respects that about her.

What’s not to like?

“Well, I don’t think she’s a bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Or maybe you want to be her bitch…”

“Oh, fuck you!” She throws a tissue at Mik’s face as the model cackles in delight. Her phone suddenly chimes, a message from an unknown number popping up on the screen.

?: hey, I got your number from Tamisha

“Who is it?”

Damn her and her expressive features. She keeps quiet, brain going at breakneck speed to think of all the reasons why she’s texting on a Friday night when she probably has at least a hundred different parties to go to and a thousand different women trying to catch her eye.

Denali: really hope this is rose and not the guy standing outside Tamisha’s office who keeps asking me out

“It’s just Rosé.” She watches Mik’s mouth turn into an O-shape and she throws another tissue. “No, no, not what you’re thinking, sweetie.”

At least she doesn’t think so. Harmless flirting is one thing, but getting her number from her manager? They keep stepping closer and closer to the line and she thinks she sees the chalk start to smudge.

?: sorry to disappoint, it’s just rosé

Denali: too bad. what’s up?

“She’s texting you on a fucking Friday night.” Mik sounds absolutely dumbfounded. “Sounds a lot more than professional to me.”

She knows that Mik is right. They don’t even have practice tomorrow, so she can’t justify it as a possible cancellation. She’s about to come out with some boldfaced lie when her phone vibrates on the table.

Rose: just thought you should have my number. ps: my name is not rose

Olivia arrives and she slams her phone right down on the table.

“I’m buying us a round of shots.

—

She hates this. She loves this. Saturday morning is now the distant tip-tap of heels against the floor, click in the brain, a switch to her soul. Wake up, wake up, wake up. This is not home, it’s not her hotel room. It’s just a cold floor where she has some peace.

Then she hears that voice, every note of the song a gentle wave rushing in to carry her away from her body. Her eyes are glued shut, but it doesn’t matter when she’s already left her body behind on the shore. The voice grows louder, closer, and the waves start to grow. Her body is too far away now and she’s not sure if her eyes will ever open again.

Wake the fuck up.

“Denali?”

A poke to the ribs sends her rushing back into her own body. An involuntary groan escapes her lips and she hears a laugh from above her. She scrunches her eyes shut, terrified that any form of light might cost her the ability to see.

“What the hell?”

Her voice sounds like a croak to her ears and she manages to roll over onto her back. With a moment of preparation, she cracks open an eye. She’s greeted by the sight of Rosé kneeling over her barely functioning body, clearly trying her best not to laugh. Again, she groans and Rosé can no longer help herself.

“Why are you here?”

Honestly, she’s not sure about the answer to that one. There are bits and pieces of memories from last night printed on the back of her eyelids, but it’s all too fuzzy for her to try to piece together immediately. She remembers the sound of Olivia’s laughter mingling with Mik’s voice as they watched her throw back a seventh shot. The memory causes pain to start creeping into her head and she makes a promise to herself to never drink again.

There’s the sound of shuffling and when she looks up, Rosé isn’t kneeling above her anymore. She assumes that she’s sick and tired of her hungover ass, a perfectly valid response in her opinion. Then she hears humming beside her and sighs, glad that validity has no place in this situation. She closes her eyes again, losing herself to the light behind her eyes to ease the throbbing at her temples.

“Isn’t it a Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“I asked you first.”

Her hands fly up to her face. Rosé is laughing again and the pain starts to spread throughout every part of her head. If only it would subside, maybe she’d finally have the energy to actually be embarrassed about waking up on the floor of her workplace.

“Went drinking.”

“Ah, and how’s that going for you?” There’s a smile in her voice. Fuck it, she thinks as she jumps straight over the line of professionalism with a flip of her middle finger. Oh well, it’s not as if this whole situation has pretty much created a void where the line should be.

“Your turn.”

Rosé goes quiet. She focuses on the sound of their breathing. Inhale, exhale. The expansion of her sides with every controlled gulp of air. She hears a plane overhead, letting the escape of air follow it far away from city streets.

“Just wanted to get away for a while.”

She turns her head, sees pale pink rose petals sprawled out on the dark floor. In the gentle light of a Saturday morning, her eyes break her promise to herself, drinking in the sight of weary beauty. She thinks she’s just hungover, but she believes she’s never seen anyone quite so pretty before.

“Well,” She looks back up at the ceiling, stark white staring back at her. “Same here.”

—

By 10:00 PM, she’s burying herself in sheets. She’s never been much of a fan of stillness, but she thinks the last week might be changing her mind.

A few hours earlier, she’d replied to Mik and Olivia’s texts, asking her if she was okay. She cursed and reassured them in the same breath. When they’d asked her where she’d ended up, she had said, “passed out on the floor.”

Half a truth is good enough, right?

If she had told them everything, she’d have to tell them that she laid in the studio for half an hour with Rosé’s humming the only thing cutting through the pounding in her head. She would have to tell them that she’d stumbled as she got up, letting warm hands guide her as she learned to stand. She’d have to tell them of the exchange of tender smiles, so different from the tug of war of flirtation that she’s accustomed to.

Her phone lights up. She expects Mik or Olivia, even Kahmora. No, she only sees that name and she giggles to herself like a damn teenager, a quiet admission that she’s allowed something to change.

Rose: pls tell me you didn’t go drinking again

Denali: I actually like having more than one brain cell, thanks

Rose: great, don’t want to have to pick you up off the floor again

Denali: won’t you ever let me live it down rose?

Rose: only if you start spelling my name right

Denali: the accent’s too much of an effort

Rose: then use my real name

Denali: ???

Rose: call me rosie

A smile graces her lips and she shoots off one last message. She places her phone on the nightstand and buries herself in the blankets, drifting into her first good sleep in a long time.

Denali: alright, night rosie

—

Monday morning suddenly frees up when Rosé says she has to move their session to the evening to make room for interviews. She fills up the rest of her morning by replying to emails about skating gigs for when she eventually returns home. She has lunch with Mik and Olivia and when they inevitably begin to pry, she stays mum on what she can only now describe as her complicated friendship with Rosé. She returns to the hotel and lets herself sleep, turning the feeling of being well-rested into a brand-new addiction.

When she arrives at the studio at 7, there’s no one there. While it isn’t like Rosé to be late, she doesn’t text. She assumes that she’s coming from yet another one of many interviews that she kindly referred to as, “shitheads trying to get way too personal.”

She settles for freestyling to loosen up while she waits. When the music starts, she feels herself break. Every moment is grounded in her own brand of ferocity and well, sex. There’s comfort in her own body, in the knowing that it is a temple of worship to herself. A signal from her brain to move, a single fluid motion, all indulgent offerings to the pleasure only she will ever feel. She throws herself into the fire and the sensation of pleasure starts to build.

The door opens, but she doesn’t, can’t stop. She feels like she’s hovering over the floor, on the brink of climax. The song peaks and she almost gasps, dropping to her knees and letting her back hit the floor. She takes a deep breath, relishes the feeling of being alive.

“Sorry.” She’s apologizing, but she’s not sure for what.

“I…” For once, Rosé is at a loss for words. Her quick wit has been thrown out the window and is probably being dragged around under the wheels of a taxi. She laughs breathily as she gets to her feet.

When their eyes meet, the air turns heavy with unspoken words and desire. She tries to look away, but she can’t. Brown gazes meet and for the first time, she permits herself the thought of what it would be like to kiss her. Maybe, just maybe, that wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Uhm, okay! Let’s get started?” Rosé bursts out and she thinks that she might have won this round.

If the singer seems more distracted than usual, she doesn’t say anything about it.

—

The water in the shower is still cold when she receives a text that evening.

Rosie: no need to meet me for the rest of the week. We need four dancers for the video, auditions on wed

The water suddenly seems warm and for the first time in her life, she thinks she’s finally learning what it’s like to lose.

—

[aliciameade]

It Really Builds

Title: It Really Builds Author: aliciameade Rating: E for Everything I Write is Smut Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Post PP3. They were roommates. (They were not quarantined.) Chloe likes to try new bath and body products. She leaves them in the shower for Beca to try. Beca’s not sure Chloe meant to leave one particular product behind labeled “pleasure balm.”

You’re welcome @becabottommitchell​.

Also on AO3

“Dude, seriously?” Beca laughs to herself. She’d reached somewhat distractedly for her conditioner. Her mind was trying to work out a hook for a new song she’d been sent; the song was terrible but she knew she could strip it down to nothing and build it back up into something good.

She stares at the compact green bottle she’s retrieved. It is not the blue bottle of conditioner she’d intended to grab. It’s unfamiliar and definitely not hers. Chloe always has new bath and body products in the shower. She loves trying the latest fad and there’s not a week that goes by that there’s not some new type of scrub, oil, cleanser, purifier, or detoxifier crammed onto one of the overflowing shelves of the shower they share.

(Beca’s still trying to get rid of the stain caused by a particularly potent bath bomb.) 

Sometimes Beca tries them out of curiosity; it’s hard to pass up promises of smaller pores or glowing skin.

She’s about to flip the cap on this one after noticing something about it being spearmint and assuming it’s meant to revitalize her face when she does a double-take to actually read the packaging.

Kama Sutra Pleasure Balm

Beca’s not an idiot. Nor is she a prude. She doesn’t have to guess what its purpose is or how it’s used, though she’s never tried it before.

She’s also not surprised Chloe has such a thing. She is, however, amused that she left it in the shower.

And since Beca is not an idiot, she quickly realizes that meant Chloe was using it in the shower at some point between yesterday and today because she doesn’t recall seeing the distinct emerald green bottle when she showered yesterday.

That thought does a few things to her. It makes her blush, it makes her drop the bottle to the bathtub floor, and it turns her on.

She hates herself a little bit for that. Whatever she and Chloe are (they are friends), she knows it’s not cool to get aroused by thoughts of her doing...whatever she was choosing to do with her pleasure balm.

(Beca has a pretty good idea.)

Angry at herself, she grabs the conditioner and works it through her hair, glaring at the bottle sitting on top of the drain by her feet which has sparked all kinds of thoughts in her mind.

Unfortunately, she has nothing else to occupy herself with as she waits the recommended three minutes for her conditioner to do whatever it does and finally stoops to retrieve it and put it back on the shelf where she found it.

Except instead of putting it back, she’s turning the bottle over to read instructions about dabbing it on pleasure points to let the fun begin. 

And she knows, she knows curiosity killed the cat, but she can’t help it. Thoughts of Chloe touching herself right where Beca stands now have consumed her, fogged up her rational brain with a need to seek her own relief.

And if it works for Chloe, it makes her want to try it all the more.

“Whatever,” she says and flips the cap open to put a dab of clear gel, the scent of mint immediately filling the steamy shower, on her fingertip before she returns it to the shelf.

She doesn’t have to be a scientist to figure out what will probably be the most interesting place to put it. She slips her fingers between her legs to brush it over and around her clit and rinses off her hands. 

She had expected an instantaneous reaction but there’s little more than a faint tingling sensation. Disappointing, really.

Instead of waiting it out, she gives up and rinses the conditioner out of her hair. The moment has passed and she feels kind of dumb and a little wrong for using something so personal of her roommate’s.

Shame creeping up the back of her neck she hops out of the shower, works a towel through her hair until it’s no longer dripping, and wraps her favorite fresh, fluffy one around her body.

She’s two steps away from her room when the product decides to kick in.

“Oh, fuck,” she says, actually tripping and slamming her shoulder into the door frame as she tries to hurry into her room. It makes her curse again which gets Chloe’s attention, head popping out from her room across from Beca’s.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she says, not noticing how breathless she is until she hears herself. It’s not a faint tingle anymore; it’s a full-on sensory assault. She might as well have an ice cube between her legs. She’d slam the door if she could remember how to use her limbs.

“Are you sure?” Chloe’s voice is getting closer and it’s laced with genuine worry. Beca knows what comes next: Chloe touching her out of concern.

She hisses when Chloe’s hand touches right between her bare shoulder blades. Every inch of her feels like it’s on fire and also in an ice bath. 

Beca has many regrets right now. Such as her inappropriate curiosity. Her underestimation of what had appeared to be a relatively innocuous substance. Not keeping her shit together long enough so she could make it into her room and lock the door and do...whatever it was going to take to answer the demands her body’s suddenly making. The fact that when she’s turned on, her mouth and the rational part of her brain don’t always communicate.

“Dude, what the fuck with that Kama Sutra shit in the shower?”

She realizes she says the words but doesn’t have the capacity to try to take them back.

Chloe’s hand disappears and there’s a muffled sound behind her; she doesn’t have to turn around to know that Chloe’s covering her mouth in an attempt to not laugh. “Oh, my God, Bec.” She drops her hand away, voice clear once again. “Did you use it?”

“Shut up,” Beca growls, spinning around, half-embarrassed, half-generally confused as to why she’s not kicking Chloe out right now. She’s managed to stumble at least a couple of steps into her room. She could slam the door in her face if she wanted to.

Chloe’s laugh is even louder this time. “Your face is, like, beet red. Did you not know what it was?”

“I knew what it was,” Beca bites.

Chloe’s eyebrows raise at that and Beca can’t help but notice Chloe kind of eyes her up and down. “It’s on you right now?”

“No, I’m just generally this horny when I get out of the shower.” Her own eyes go wide at her admission but she still can’t manage to rescind her words.

Chloe’s entire demeanor seems to shift. Even her voice is different. Quieter. “Where did you use it?”

“Where do you think?” Beca has to shift her stance. It’s like the evil fucking gel is listening to their conversation and choosing to amp up its intensity based on what’s being said. However, the shift, minor as it is, feels like ice water pouring between her legs and her entire body shudders.

It’s obvious Chloe notices; her teeth suddenly snag her bottom lip and she looks at Beca in a way Beca’s not unfamiliar with. She’s seen Chloe look that way at other people before kissing them.

“How is it?” Chloe asks, voice still quiet. She takes a tentative step forward with the question and alarm bells sound in Beca’s brain but she doesn’t know what to do about them.

“Intense,” she manages to squeak. It’s almost starting to burn which is a new, not unwelcome sensation.

“It helps if you touch it.”

Beca should probably be surprised Chloe would have masturbation recommendations for her but she’s really not. “Yeah, well...there’s the door,” she says with a jutting of her chin in that direction.

“Yeah,” Chloe says absently, still moving closer step by step until Beca has to take a step backward that does not go ignored by what’s happening between her legs. 

A whimper escapes her lips and she immediately clenches her jaw.

“I can show you.”

Beca just stares. Because Chloe seems to have just offered to put Beca out of her misery.

“If it’s okay with you,” Chloe continues, still moving forward until Beca’s legs hit the edge of her bed.

She doesn’t sit; she’s not sure what will happen if she does. Spontaneously combust, probably. “Um…” Say yes. Just say yes, dummy.

Chloe’s eyes feel hot when they meet Beca’s. “Because I’d like to show you.”

Another shiver chooses that moment to zing through her, right when she opens her mouth, and her, “Okay,” comes out more like a moan than anything.

The way Chloe steps into her space, Beca fully expects to be kissed. She even keeps her lips parted and wets them, only for Chloe to stop short of that. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Beca nods dumbly; she knows she’s not going to tell Chloe to stop whatever is about to happen.

She feels the graze of fingertips on her inner thigh, higher than the edge of her towel, and her knees nearly give out. It shouldn’t feel that good, not there, but every inch of her is on edge, every nerve on high-alert, and a hand flies out, unthinking, to grab and hold on to Chloe’s shoulder.

“You weren’t kidding,” Chloe murmurs with a soft smile, mostly to herself it seems. Beca doesn’t really respond. She can’t. Not when Chloe’s fingers are traveling up her thigh. Chloe, her friend since she was 18. Chloe, her friend with whom she’s been through thick and thin. Chloe, the woman she’s lived with, in some arrangement or another, for nearly eight years. Chloe, the person she’s been in love with for as long as she’s known her.

She has to close her eyes; it’s too much to watch Chloe watching her for reactions and Chloe’s fingers are dangerously close to intimate territory.

Beca hadn’t bargained on her body being as aroused as it is, though, and that arousal and the incessant, subconscious clenching of her thighs has traveled beyond the source. She feels Chloe’s fingers find and slip through slickness sooner than she had expected.

“Oh, Beca…” Chloe sighs and Beca feels her move closer. She doesn’t dare open her eyes to look but she can sense her, can feel the warmth radiating from her body and her breath against her own lips. Her fingers’ advance pauses, though, and she feels her moving slowly back and forth along the wet patch on her right thigh. “Are you sure?”

She knows she should say something more like, ‘yes,’ but what comes out instead is, “Please.”

Chloe’s exhale is sudden. There’s so much unspoken communication with it that it makes Beca’s head spin more than it already is. “Okay,” she says and Beca feels the word against her lips. “I’m going to touch you.”

The words ‘you already are’ flit through Beca’s mind but they don’t make it any further. Her fingers dig into Chloe’s shoulder in anticipation and though Chloe isn’t really teasing her, it still feels like it takes a year and a half for something to happen.

When it does, when Chloe’s fingertip grazes Beca’s clit, Beca can’t breathe.

In a more normal circumstance, she’s sure she wouldn’t have been able to breathe, either.

But this...when her body is on fire from whatever that balm was already doing to her…

The word, “Fuck” forms and dies on her lips and her hips tilt [somewhat embarrassingly if she cared; she doesn’t] forward.

She hears what sounds like a moan, but it came from Chloe. It makes her hips buck again, already seconds from coming, and she feels Chloe’s touch disappear.

“No, don’t,” she whines. Pathetic. She’s totally pathetic.

Chloe shushes her and she can hear the way she’s chuckling through it. “Sit down.”

The concept of sitting, of putting so much pressure and so many contact points around the part of her body that is screaming so loudly that it’s deafening, scares her and her entire body stiffens.

“Beca,” Chloe repeats, actually laughing this time, “just sit down.” She actually pushes Beca and with the bed already flush against her calves, Beca has nowhere to go but down.

As expected, it’s a rush of stimulation that makes her shudder and forces her to grit her teeth because she’s definitely on the precipice of orgasm, and it just seems like way too soon for that. She’s not even sure she wants to orgasm with Chloe.

(Kidding. She 150% wants to orgasm with Chloe. It’s just not something she thought she’d be doing when she woke up today.)

“Can I show you what I like?” Chloe asks as she nudges Beca’s knees apart with her own. Her eyes linger particularly long on Beca, but not on her face, and Beca glances down in concern to notice her towel is just sitting limply around her waist and in her lap.

It must have fallen when she sat; she hadn’t been thinking about babysitting her towel. She grabs for it immediately, meaning to cover up her nudity, but Chloe’s hand stops her from reaching it.

“Don’t,” Chloe says as she starts to kneel. It makes Beca’s mouth go dry. “I like seeing you.”

Beca swallows and lets her hands rest on the bed and tries to not pass out.

“So, can I show you?”

“Um,” Beca has to clear her throat to get her voice to work. “Okay.”

Chloe smiles up at her; it would be innocent if not for what was happening right now. “Awes.” She nudges Beca’s legs wider to accommodate the width of her shoulders and glances up at Beca after a few seconds. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she manages, not sure where the strength or brain power came from. Maybe the adrenaline that’s kicking in from being naked on a bed with Chloe on her knees in front of her asking to show her something she likes.

Chloe just giggles (such a pretty sound), and Beca feels hands run up her legs from her ankles to her calves to her knees to her thighs which Beca feels not unpleasant twinges of a stretch in as Chloe eases them wider still; it forces her to put her hands behind herself to prop herself up.

She watches until it’s too much. She closes her eyes and waits. She feels the soft touch of lips against her thigh and a moan escapes her, though the moan turns into a groan when a gentle stream of air blows across her throbbing, tingling, aching clit.

“Oh, holy shit,” she says when it subsides.

Chloe’s voice sounds smug. “Told you.”

Then another stream of air, this one lighter but it lasts longer and Beca’s entire body tries to arch into it.

“Lay back,” Chloe says, her voice sounding oddly unsteady. Beca does as she’s told, though, and lets herself fall backward to lie down as she feels her legs being lifted and shifted until she realizes they’ve been put over Chloe’s shoulders.

“Fuck,” she whines as her shoulders dig into the mattress and her heels into Chloe’s back to try to push herself closer as more air flows over her. It’s broken now, rhythmic little puffs of air that start her hips rocking to match the beat.

There’s a quiet moan from Chloe. Then, “Do you like it?”

“Yes. Fuck,” she adds with another groan when she feels Chloe’s words float over her. Because her mouth is that close to her cunt. It’s so close that she can feel Chloe’s breath on her clit when she speaks. The thought sends her hand flying down and into Chloe’s hair; she’s fantasized about this so many times and needs to feel her there. Needs to anchor herself. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” The words are breathed hotly over her and Beca knows it was done with purpose. 

It makes her hips jerk hard and then cool air returns, unpredictable patterns that drive her arousal higher and higher until she doesn’t think it’s possible to be any more turned on without coming. Without even being touched. She’s fighting it, waiting for something and she doesn’t realize what it is until, on instinct, she tugs on Chloe’s hair and hears her moan just as the tip of a tongue grazes her clit.

Beca would swear if she could but instead, she just groans and presses her hips up and tries to pull Chloe closer.

She knows Chloe’s being gentle on purpose; she would probably explode if there was any vigorous contact with her right now, but the way Chloe’s so delicately lapping at her aching clit makes her want to beg to be taken so much more roughly than what is happening.

But Chloe is taking her.

Beca’s voice is unholy; every touch of Chloe’s tongue to her flesh makes her body try to leap out of itself. The hand not tangled in Chloe’s hair fists in the quilt beneath her.

She must say or do something that tells Chloe how close she is because she hears Chloe saying, “Yes,” over and over again, though the word is distorted because her tongue doesn’t leave Beca’s clit.

When she comes, the world around her shatters.

She feels it in her brain, in her hands, in her feet, in her thighs and stomach and breasts but nowhere more so than between her legs where Chloe’s lips are touching her so, so softly despite how wildly her body is bucking. She hears it, too. Hears the way she sounds. Desperate and wanton and being released from agony. She hears Chloe, too, moaning with every breath she takes, and hearing it only draws out what already felt impossibly long.

She goes limp when it finally passes, fingers retreating from Chloe’s hair so she can use both hands to cover her face and muffle the delirious laugh that explodes from her.

“You’re laughing?” echoes up to her and she feels Chloe moving her legs off her shoulders so they hang freely again. 

It only makes her laugh harder; it’s all too much. What just happened. The entire scenario. The massive orgasm that Chloe’s mouth had just given her.

She feels the bed dip and move after several seconds and then feels the warmth of bare skin pressing against her own, thigh to arm, and a hand drags one of her own down from her face.

It’s Chloe, of course. Chloe who, with one quick glance to confirm, has stripped herself naked and gotten into bed with Beca. Chloe whose face is flushed and eyes are dark and hair is mussed and who looks ready to quite literally devour [again] her at any second (she would let her. She would sooooo let her.)

“What’s so funny?” Chloe asks with a smile as she pulls Beca’s other hand away.

Beca’s still trying to formulate a response when Chloe’s mouth claims hers.

It’s not gentle or tentative; it’s hot and all-consuming and Beca opens her mouth to her tongue immediately.

She’s still moaning from the unexpected kiss when she feels her lips start to tingle.

She hadn’t considered that.

That it would transfer from Beca’s clit to Chloe’s lips (oh, my God) to Beca’s lips. But it has and it amps up her raw senses even more until she’s blindly reaching for Chloe’s hand and dragging it between her legs.

“Seriously?” Chloe laughs against her lips before flicking her tongue over Beca’s and her fingers over her clit. “God, you are amazing like this.”

“Shut up.”

“You are,” Chloe says, fingers already setting a pattern against Beca. “But I’ll shut up now.”

Beca’s nodding as she works her arm under and around Chloe so she can keep her close. “Good.”

The End

[ominousunflower]

Glad It’s You

for Day 27 (Naps) of @adrinetteapril

Summary: After fighting four late-night akumas in a row, the heroes of Paris are desperately in need of a nap. (Post-reveal, pre-relationship.)

Word count: 3147

Read on AO3

____________________________________

With ten minutes of class left, the sound of a book slamming against the desk startles Adrien awake.

“Sorry, Madamoiselle Bustier!” Nino says, as the entire class turns to him. “I, uh, was testing the acoustics in here.”

A vague frown flits across Madamoiselle Bustier’s face. “Please test the acoustics outside of class time, Nino. Now, as I was saying, several of the themes in Shakespeare’s plays recur in popular works today…”

Adrien yawns and slumps back in his seat, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Dude,” Nino hisses. “I’m running out of ways to keep you awake.”

He has a point. In the past fifteen minutes, Nino has dropped his book, kicked Adrien’s leg, faked a coughing fit, hit the desk to “kill” a bug, and yelled, Wow, look at that fat pigeon outside! And none of it has kept Adrien awake for more than a few seconds.

“Sorry,” Adrien mumbles. His jaw stretches in another yawn. “I was up late doing homework last night.”

“Are you in extra secret classes I don’t know about?” Nino whispers. “Because I’m pretty sure you have just as much homework as the rest of us.”

“Modeling,” Adrien says with a shrug, which is his go-to excuse whenever I was up all night fighting akumas and sentimonstres won’t do.

A few seconds of silence pass, during which Adrien nearly nods off again. Then a loud shriek from behind him sends a jolt through his veins, and he jumps to his feet, scanning the room for danger.

“Alya,” Madamoiselle Bustier says, her voice edged with exasperation. “Are you alright?”

That was Alya? Adrien hadn’t even recognized her voice. He’s not sure he’s ever heard her make a sound like that.

“I thought I saw a spider,” Alya says.

“Don’t you like spiders?” Alix asks.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be startled by one!” Alya says. “Sorry, Madamoiselle Bustier. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Sighing, Adrien lowers himself into his seat, his heart still pounding from adrenaline.

Nino snorts. “Looks like Marinette is having trouble staying awake, too.”

Adrien twists in his seat to look at Marinette—his confidante, his partner, and, of course, the secret love of his life. (Or maybe not-so-secret, considering he’s confessed his love on multiple occasions.) Their eyes meet, and Marinette gives him a bleary-eyed smile that crinkles the shadows under her eyes.

“You too?” he whispers.

She nods. “No amount of caffeine can save me.”

“Oh? So the sight of my stunning face doesn’t get your blood pumping?”

Marinette rolls her eyes, and just that simple action makes Adrien’s heart skip a beat. He’d thought it would take years for him and Marinette to have this sort of casual camaraderie—and then, to his delight, he’d discovered that she was Ladybug, and Marinette had discovered that he was Chat Noir.

After the inevitable week-or-so of awkwardness—during which Marinette compulsively made cat puns every time she saw him, and Adrien tripped over his feet every time he saw her—they’d settled into a comfortable rhythm, and now, it’s as if they’ve been best friends since birth.

“Please pay attention, you four,” Madamoiselle Bustier says. Adrien reluctantly tears his eyes away from Marinette and turns back around. “I’d rather not rearrange the seating chart, but I will separate you four if I have to.”

They all blurt out assorted apologies, and with a nod, Madamoiselle Bustier continues with the lesson.

Somehow, despite the fog in his brain, Adrien makes it to the end of class without falling asleep again. As soon as the bell rings and everyone begins gathering their things, though, he folds his arms and buries his face in them.

Behind Adrien, Alya says, “Marinette! You awake? Are you getting lunch with me and Nino?”

“I—” Marinette breaks off, audibly yawning. “I think I’ll go home for lunch so that I can take a nap.”

“Good plan,” Alya says. “You look exhausted.”

“Probably because I am?”

“Listen,” Alya says, “I’m all for productivity. But maybe you should take on a little less work? You’re barely getting any sleep with all these commissions.”

Ah, if only it was a question of taking on less work. Adrien is sure that Marinette, like him, would love to be fighting fewer akumas. Unfortunately, Papillon’s supervillain agenda doesn’t seem to take their sleep schedules into account.

Adrien wonders when Papillon even sleeps, since he seems to send akumas at every possible time. Do he and Mayura take shifts using the Butterfly Miraculous? Is Papillon an insomniac? Or does he just set an alarm on his phone before he goes to bed? Siri, set an alarm to “send akuma, muahaha” at 02:48, please.  

“What about you, dude?” Nino asks. He nudges Adrien’s arm. “You going home for lunch?”

“Mm.” Adrien slowly lifts his head and glances in Nino’s general direction. “Yeah, I don’t really have a choice. But maybe I can get a nap in, too.”

“You two go ahead!” Marinette says. “I’ll wait for Adrien.”

Alya and Nino say their goodbyes, and then Adrien and Marinette are sitting alone in the classroom.

“Come on,” Marinette says, patting Adrien’s shoulder. “The sooner we go home and eat, the sooner we can sleep.”

“Screw Papillon,” Adrien says in response. He gets to his feet and nearly topples over, his head swimming with sleepiness. Marinette’s hand on his arm steadies him, and he turns toward her and lets his forehead fall against her shoulder. “I’m sick of this,” Adrien mumbles against Marinette’s shirt. “I mean, it’s been, what? Five nights in a row with akumas and sentimonstres? Or has it been six?”

“Only four, actually,” Marinette says. She pats his back. “He’ll slow down eventually, minou. We just have to push through.”

“Ugh.” Adrien slumps against Marinette, reveling in how soft and warm she feels. “I think I could nap right here.”

“Not an option,” Marinette pokes his cheek. “Let’s go. We’re wasting precious naptime by standing here.”

Grumbling to himself, Adrien shoves his books and papers into his bag—not caring that his homework sheet gets crumpled and ripped in the process—then slings the bag over his shoulder and follows Marinette out of the classroom.

Their arms brush as they walk, a habit formed from being Ladybug and Chat Noir for so long. The two are used to casual touches, to staying close so that they don’t get separated, and those habits have carried over into their civilian lives. Of course, Adrien’s not complaining, even if Marinette’s gentle touch sometimes makes his face flush bright red.

Really, how is it possible that she’s Ladybug? It makes perfect sense, and yet, he hadn’t thought that Marinette Dupain-Cheng could get any more amazing. Occasionally, he still has trouble wrapping his head around the concept.

“Hey,” Adrien says, bumping his shoulder against Marinette’s as they start down the stairs. “We’re a pretty great team, huh?”

Marinette laughs. “You’re always saying random things like that.”

“It’s not random,” Adrien says with a blush—though really, given how tired his brain is, he’s not sure he’s able to hold a coherent conversation. “We’re a great team, so no amount of sleepiness can make us lose.”

“Well,” Marinette says, a smirk tugging at her lips, “that may be true, but—eek!”

She stumbles and pitches forward, and Adrien wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him before she can tumble down the stairs.

“Careful, buginette,” he says, leaning close until their noses are almost touching. To his delight, she doesn’t pull away. “Falling down the stairs might be quicker, but I imagine it’s a lot more painful, too.”

“I—uh.” Marinette blinks her bright eyes, the ones that make Adrien fall more in love every time they look at him. “Nice reflexes.”

“Thanks. I try.”

She jabs a finger against his chest. “But you could have caught me without hugging me, you touchy-feely tomcat.”

“Well,” Adrien says. He fumbles for a response, which is hard when he’s exhausted and holding onto the girl he loves. “We’re standing on an es-câlin-er, aren’t we?”

“You’re awful,” Marinette says, wriggling away from him. Adrien grudgingly lets go of her, since she seems to have regained her balance. “That pun wasn’t even endearingly bad. It was just bad.”

“Rude,” Adrien says. Marinette begins to descend the stairs again, and he instinctively grabs her hand in case she trips a second time. “Do you know how hard it is to pun on one hour of sleep? I’m doing my best.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Marinette teases.

Adrien smirks. “For you, my lady, the sacrifice is worth it.”

Marinette just snorts and rolls her eyes again.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Adrien releases Marinette��s hand. Her fingers stubbornly cling to his for a moment, though he supposes it’s just her slow reaction time.

“Um, so,” he says, as they cross the courtyard. “I guess you don’t want to get lunch together today? Since we’re both trying to catch up on sleep?”

That’s another new development, since they learned each other’s identities: spending their lunch breaks together. Although Adrien’s father doesn’t let him eat lunch at school, he doesn’t care whether Adrien eats lunch in the dining room or his bedroom. Lately, then, Adrien has been taking his food upstairs, and Marinette has been sneaking into his bedroom as Ladybug. It’s a thousand times better than sitting alone at the end of a big empty table, and Adrien cherishes any chance he has to spend more time with Marinette.

“I can still come by!” Marinette says. “I’ll just leave a little early so that I have time to go home and sleep.”

You could sleep in my room, Adrien thinks, but he decides to keep that suggestion to himself. “Sounds good,” he says instead. “I’ll text you once my food is brought up.”

They go their separate ways once they reach the sidewalk, and Adrien slowly climbs into his car. Somehow, he almost falls asleep on the brief ride to his house, but when the car stops, he rallies just enough to drag himself inside the mansion.

Nathalie meets him at the door. “Are you eating in your room today?”

“Yeah,” Adrien says, yawning. “Have the cook send the food upstairs, please.”

The moment he sets foot in his room, he pivots toward his bed and trudges toward it, kicking off his shoes as he does.

Energetic as ever, Plagg phases through Adrien’s bag and circles his head, making him slightly dizzy. Although Adrien isn’t the biggest fan of camembert, he envies Plagg for being able to recharge just from eating the stuff.

“Ah, the good life,” Plagg says. “Slacking off in the middle of the day, sneaking your lady love into your room for a surreptitious date—”

“It’s not a date,” Adrien mumbles. “It’s just lunch.”

“Yes, and that’s entirely beyond me,” Plagg says. “You’re in love with her, and she’s clearly in love with you, so it only seems natural that—”

“Sleep,” Adrien says, as he throws himself onto his mattress. “Too tired for romance. Naptime.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Plagg says, his voice receding as he flies off toward a bowl of snacks on the coffee table. “Not that I’m complaining. You’re unbearable when you go on and on about your bug.”

A minute later, there’s a quiet knock on the door.

“Come in,” Adrien says, his words muffled by his pillow.

The door opens, and footsteps pad over to the nightstand by his bed. Adrien hears the sound of a tray being set down, and then the footsteps retreat just as quickly as they arrived.

“Thank you,” Adrien mumbles, and the door clicks shut.

His mind floats toward dreamland, vague shapes moving behind his eyelids, snippets of sound swirling in his head as he slips into sleep. His body feels heavy, sinking all too happily into the mattress as he finally gets the rest he needs.

“Adrien?” a quiet voice asks.

Adrien curls up, his fingers digging into the blanket. “Mm.”

“Oh!” the voice says. It kind of sounds like Marinette. Or Ladybug…Maribug. Ladynette? Whichever. He loves all of them. “You’re sleeping. I guess that explains why you didn’t text me! Um, I brought my lunch, but I can just take it home and let you nap.”

“Wait,” Adrien murmurs. He flails an arm out, blindly reaching toward the voice. “Sleep.”

“Yes, I’ll let you sleep! That’s what I said.”

“No.” Adrien summons every ounce of strength in his body to turn his head, peering up at the girl standing next to his bed. Maribug is transformed right now, wearing her red and black suit with a yo-yo strapped to her waist. “Detransform and sleep.” Eyes fluttering shut, he pats the mattress next to him.

“Oh. B-but—but that’s your bed. And you’re in it.”

Adrien whines and lifts his arm again, beckoning Ladynette toward him.

“I guess I can sit here until you wake up,” she says. “That won’t hurt, right? Right.”

Adrien hopes she’s talking to herself, because he’s too tired to respond. The mattress dips as she sits next to him, and Adrien immediately snuggles closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. His fingers dig into loose cloth, like a shirt, and he realizes that she must have detransformed without him hearing.

He cracks his eyes open just long enough to look up at her face. Marinette squeaks, staring down at him with wide eyes. Smiling, Adrien closes his eyes and presses his face to her side.

Fingers stroke his hair, scratching the spot where his cat ears would be if he was transformed. Adrien feels a familiar warmth bloom in his chest, the kind that would become a purr if he was Chat Noir right now.

“Lie down,” Adrien murmurs, his words barely coherent. “You need sleep.”

He hears Marinette yawn above him. “Well…it would be a waste to go home, now that I’m here. Maybe just a few minutes.”

The mattress dips again, and Marinette shifts beneath Adrien’s arm, sliding down the mattress until his arm is draped across her waist. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that she’s stretched out alongside him—he can feel it, the same way he senses her movements during battle without looking.

For a minute, Adrien hovers on the edge of sleep, acutely aware of the space between their bodies. Heat-seeking, touch-starved, he’d love to close it; but the first move is Marinette’s to make, not his. She already knows where he stands.

Then, just before he drifts off, the space disappears. Marinette’s arm wraps around his waist, pulling them closer together, and she presses her cheek to his chest.

And suddenly, Adrien is very, very awake.

He holds his breath, afraid that this is a mistake—afraid that she’ll change her mind or retreat at the slightest touch. Her face is warm against his chest, her fingers idly toying with the hem of his shirt, and Adrien can sense each breath she takes, can hear the occasional sigh accompanying her exhales.

Even though he’s frozen in fear, he’s pretty sure he’s in heaven.

“Relax,” Marinette mutters. “You’re too tense.”

Adrien’s breath gusts from his lungs in a laugh, and he tightens his arm around Marinette’s waist, tugging her closer. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

“I’m very comfortable,” she says. “This mattress is way nicer than mine.”

Adrien hums. “Well, my window’s always open, you know.”

Marinette snorts and nuzzles against him. “It sounds like you’re propositioning me.”

“You know I’m innocent.” Adrien hesitantly moves his hand to Marinette’s back. “Is this okay?”

“Mm hm.” A moment later, Marinette’s foot brushes against one of Adrien’s calves, her leg settling over his. “Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah.” Taking a deep breath, Adrien rests his chin against the top of Marinette’s head. Every point of contact he makes between them, he feels like he’s stepping off the edge of a cliff, falling into a ravine that could either hold spikes or a trampoline at the bottom. “You know, I wish we had more moments like this.”

“Hugging?”

“Resting,” Adrien says. He sighs. “I know I said we’re unstoppable, and we are…”

“But?”

“I’m tired,” Adrien whispers. “Marinette, I’m exhausted. And so are you. I don’t know how we’re going to keep this up.”

Marinette is silent for a long moment. “We have to,” she finally says.

“Yeah,” Adrien says. He runs his hand up and down Marinette’s back, then reaches up to play with one of her pigtails. “I guess we do.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she says, and her words are less clear this time, garbled by sleepiness.

“Like we always do,” Adrien says, allowing himself a small smile.

“That’s right. You and me, against the—” Marinette breaks off in a yawn. “Against the world.”

Hearing his words from her mouth—words he wasn’t even sure she remembered—Adrien feels his cheeks heat with a blush. Grateful that she can’t see his face, he presses his lips to the top of her head in a featherlight kiss.

Marinette moves, and Adrien’s afraid she’s about to scold him. Instead, though, she tilts her head back and presses her lips to his jaw, a soft kiss that doesn’t quite reach his cheek.

Adrien’s face burns hotter, and he buries his face in her hair to hide his blush.

Marinette giggles, her body shaking against his. “You blush easily.”

“I don’t,” Adrien mutters.

“It’s cute.”

“Oh.” Adrien swallows nervously. “Um, so maybe I blush a little.”

Marinette laughs again. When she doesn’t say anything else right away, Adrien thinks maybe she’s fallen asleep—but then she murmurs, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Adrien frowns. Does she mean that she’s glad it’s him she’s cuddling with? Or something else?

“I know we’ve known each other’s identities for a while,” Marinette says, “but—I don’t know if I ever said that. I’m glad you’re my partner, Adrien.”

“Oh,” Adrien breathes. He tentatively moves his hand to cup the back of Marinette’s neck, his thumb stroking the spot behind her ear. Marinette’s words have his heart racing, almost enough to overcome the exhaustion seeping through his bones. “You’re not usually this forthcoming, buginette.”

“I’m too tired to be embarrassed,” she says. “But I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Mm.” Adrien resists the urge to kiss her head again. “I’m glad it’s you, too, you know.”

“That’s nice,” Marinette mumbles, and Adrien laughs. He can tell she’s drifting off now, her words barely enunciated, her body going lax in his arms.

And having her so close—having her arms wrapped around him, and his around her—he’s never felt safer. He’s never been more certain that they fit together perfectly. And somehow, he’s never been more in love with her.

Smiling, Adrien closes his eyes and lets himself drift away with the girl in his arms.

[firstdegreefangirl]

Eddie Week Day Four: Between The Sheets

Word Count: 2135

Original Pub Date: 17 June 2020

Relationships: Eddie Diaz/Evan Buckley

Author's Note: This whole thing started with a convo in @rebeccaofsbfarm's inbox, so blame/credit to her for helping me cheat my way through this prompt! Love youuuu

Read on ao3 here

Just like aways, tagging: @eddiediazweek @hearteyesforbuck  @thisissirius @hearteyesforbuck @dramamineontopofme @twinien @meloingly  @myemergence 

Eddie pushes the front door open, almost trips over his own feet trying to step across the threshold. Buck is right behind him, laughing when Eddie doesn’t pick his feet up far enough and catches his toe on the lip of the doorframe.  

“Shut up, I just want to shower and go to bed.” He grumbles, leaning both palms against the wall for balance as he toes his shoes off.  

They’d stopped at a drive-thru on the way to the house, Eddie riding in the passenger seat of Buck’s Jeep because he was already too exhausted to drive. He’d tried to wave Buck off at the mention of food but Buck ordered for him anyway, shoving a cardboard container of chicken nuggets and fries in his lap and threatening to drive circles around town until he’d eaten it all.  

The long shift had drained the last reserves of energy from the entire team, but Eddie had taken a harder hit than the rest, having spent half of the night before sitting up in Christopher’s bed and rubbing his back after a bad dream.

“I know, that’s why I had to drive you home. Thanks for the couch invite, by the way. Way better than another 15 minutes behind the wheel.”  

“Anytime, man.” Eddie rocks on his feet as he leans away from the wall, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “You want first shower?”

“You never leave any hot water.” But Buck’s eyes soften when he sees the way Eddie can barely hold himself up. “But you’re not going to make it if I shower first …" He trails off, and Eddie can feel him mulling something over.  

Watching Buck think is only making him more tired, so he leans his back against the wall and sighs.

“What, Buck? You going to say we should shower together?” He turns his head just far enough to see Buck out the corner of his eye.  

“I mean, we change together at work. Why not kill two birds with one stone? It’s not like I’ve never seen you naked.”  

Eddie thinks about what Buck said, processes the words as they roll through his brain. He’s all but dead on his feet, but he has to admit that there’s a certain amount of logic to what Buck is saying.  

They’ve gotten dressed side by side countless times since Eddie joined the 118, stood naked underneath separate showerheads in the open-layout shower at the station.  

Buck is right, he’s pretty sure. There’s not much difference between catching a glimpse of your buddy in the locker room and standing in the same bathtub to shower.  

Besides, it won’t be weird unless he makes it weird, right?

“True.” Eddie nods and stands back upright, careful not to overbalance himself and faceplant. “Works for me.” He wonders briefly if falling asleep in the shower would be considered “weird,” if Buck would catch him if he toppled over underneath the spray.

It would, but Buck would anyway, he decides as he leads Buck down the hall to the master bath.

They stand next to each other to undress, shoulder-to-shoulder but facing opposite directions. It’s not a production, just the way they wind up, each of them watching behind the other, having each other’s backs.  

When the water is hot enough to fog up the mirror, Eddie pulls the door back and they step over the edge to face each other under the showerhead. The air is thick with steam, enough humidity that Buck’s hair starts to curl almost right away. Eddie focuses carefully on a ringlet that’s wrapped around the top of his ear, knows that he has to keep his eyeline above Buck’s shoulders, lest he make his best friend uncomfortable.

Here’s the thing: Eddie’s never thought of his shower as particularly small. It’s got more than enough room for him to maneuver, a showerhead with more settings than he has fingers and a glass door that lets in enough light to open the space up without flooding the bathroom.

But apparently when two grown men stand in it at the same time, it’s just tight enough that Eddie has to think carefully about his every move. How can he reach for the shampoo without touching Buck’s bicep? Can he lean back far enough to rinse the suds out of his hair without invading Buck’s personal space? Can he lean back that far without falling over, on account of the exhaustion dragging through his limbs?

He can, it turns out, but he’s really too tired to have to actively think about it. Maybe Buck’s big idea saved them a few minutes, but by the time they’re painstakingly switching positions, letting Buck run his hair under the water and wash the lather from his body, he’s exponentially more drained than he was when they walked in the front door.

Thankfully, they’re both able to clean themselves up and dry off without bumping into one another. There’s enough space in the open bathroom for them to stand a couple of feet apart as they wrap themselves in fresh towels, and Eddie tosses Buck a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt when he’s digging through his dresser drawers.  

They don’t face each other when they’re getting dressed, leave enough space between them again to avoid any unintentional contact. But when Buck stands up, Eddie winces in sympathy at the way his back pops. Through the haze of his exhaustion, he realizes that Buck probably shouldn’t sleep on the couch tonight, especially not if his back is already making sounds like that. A solution pops into his mind and falls out of his mouth all in one fell swoop, before he can realize what he’s saying.

“Sleep in my bed.”

Buck turns around as he pulls the shirt down over his stomach, eyes going wide in surprise.

“What?”

“Your back popped,” like that explains it. “Sleep in my bed.”

“Eddie … I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”

“No, you’re not.” Eddie nods, the fringes of his idea fitting together in his head. “It’s a big bed. We can both fit; I have a king. You’re too tall for the couch, Buck. It’s fine, I’m inviting you.”  

Eddie’s tired enough that he’s starting to feel a little drunk with it, but he’s not so far gone that he misses the way he can see Buck struggling with his options.  

He sleeps over all the time, but Eddie’s never suggested sharing the bed before. He’s thought about it, in the mornings when he can see Buck trying to work the knots out of his shoulders without Eddie noticing, but he’s always stopped himself before he says anything.

“OK,” Buck nods, but he still doesn’t seem sure. “But only until I convince you to buy a new couch, dude.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, is suddenly too close to sleep to formulate a response. He steps past Buck, back into the bathroom, ignoring the way their bodies brush against each other as he jams his toothbrush haphazardly around his mouth. As soon as he feels like he’s at least brushed most of his teeth, he’s spitting into the sink and stumbling across the room to pull the blankets back and collapse into bed.  

His face is buried in his pillow, but there’s just enough light seeping in at the edges of his vision that he’s still awake. So he waves one arm absently behind him, hoping Buck gets the message.

“Turn th’ light ‘ff, come lay d’wn.” The pillow muffles his voice, even as it carries back to his own ears, but Buck seems to know exactly what he’s asking, because a few seconds later, the room goes black and the mattress dips beside him as Buck settles in.

“You’re sure about this?”

They’re not touching, but Buck is close enough that Eddie can feel his breath hot against the side of his face.

“Yes, Buck ‘m sure.” Eddie groans and rolls over. “We don’t have to cuddle or ‘nything. Just shut up and sleep.”  

It’s his last conscious thought, until he wakes up the next morning with an arm slung across Buck’s waist. He looks up slowly, only to find that Buck is already staring down at him, and snatches his hand back.  

“Buck! I’m-”  

“Don’t worry about it. Doesn’t have to be a thing.” Buck rolls over and stands up, and they don’t speak of it again. Buck makes breakfast, like he always does when he stays over, and they get ready to ride back to the station after dropping Chris off at Pepa’s to catch the bus.  

But it does become a thing. Buck doesn’t stay over any more often than he did before, but there’s a whole new routine now.  

It turns out that it’s actually really convenient to have someone else in the shower to give Eddie a hand with that strip of skin on his upper back that he can’t quite reach. And there’s nobody in their right mind would sleep on the couch when Eddie’s mattress is on offer right now the hallway.  

There’s no deeper meaning to it, other than the convenience of having someone right there beside him. After the long shifts, they’ll lay awake together, reassuring each other that they’d done everything they could. They always start out fully clothed, leaving a careful distance between them, but after a few weeks that changes too.

Now, more nights than not, he and Buck will wake up curled together and find that one or both of them had pulled their shirts off overnight.  

It doesn’t have to mean anything though, and every time Eddie tries to decide if it does, he remembers that he’s setting an example for Christopher, showing him that two men can be affectionate and open with each other.  

That’s it. That’s all it means.

Which is why he doesn’t think anything of it when he throws Buck’s shirt in his duffel bag before work one morning. Buck had stayed over the night before, but left before Eddie was awake so he could make it across the freeway for an early dentist appointment before work. He’d brought a change of clothes, but Eddie isn’t surprised that he was rushing to get out the door and left his shirt behind.  

He isn’t sure why it’s so important that Buck never leaves clothes behind, but that seems to be the line they’ve silently drawn in the sand.  

So he takes the shirt to the station, but Buck is already out of the locker room when he walks in. He changes into his uniform, then carries the garment out to the common area, trying not to let himself think about how soft and worn in it feels before he tosses it at the back of Buck’s head.

“Hey, you left this in bed last night. Figured you’d want it back.”  

Buck reaches up and pulls the shirt off of his head, turning it over in his hands before folding it neatly and setting it on his knee.

“Thanks, Eds.” He doesn’t say anything else, or react otherwise, but when Eddie looks around, Hen and Chimney are staring between them, mouths agape in twin ‘o’s.

“I’m sorry, what?” It’s Chim who breaks the silence, leaning forward like there’s some remarkable story about to be told.

“What?” Buck blinks at him. “Eddie’s bed is way comfier than his couch, so I sleep there now. I suppose you’re going to say it’s weird that we shower together sometimes too? We’re best friends, we don’t need boundaries.”

He sounds dead serious, and Eddie finds himself relieved to know that Buck isn’t any more hung up on how to describe their routine than he is; they’re friends who share a bed and a shower, who cares?

“It’s not weird,” Hen sets her hand on Buck’s knee, right over the shirt. “It’s just not friends, Buckaroo.”  

Buck says something in response, but Eddie isn’t sure what it is, can't make out the words over the sound of the realization ringing in his ears.

It’s not friends.

He’s still reeling from it that night, lying in bed with Buck, whose made himself comfortable tucked into Eddie’s side. Eddie’s arm is around his shoulders, fingers toying lightly with the groove where his bicep and chest are pressed together. He can’t stop thinking about what Hen said earlier, about the freight train that drove straight into his heart.

It’s not friends.

Maybe … just maybe, if it could feel like this, if it could feel more than this, better than this, Eddie thinks he might want to be more than not-friends with Buck.  

But sleep is pulling him under, so he decides that’s a thought that can wait until they wake up next to each other in the morning.

[chaoskirin]

The Seven Seas--Chapter One

Fandom: Queen Genre: Sci-Fi/Gen Rating: PG Chapter 1 Word Count: 2379

I haven’t written any Queen fanfic in a while, but I’ve had this one in mind for about a year. Figured now was a good time to give it a go!

---

The morning started like any other: At quarter past noon, and with beer and potato chips for breakfast.

"Fred, I want to go home," Brian said, hand on his forehead, leaning back in his chair. Roger stretched his leg out and attempted to tip the chair over; the back collided with the wall and Brian shot him a grumbly look.

"No. We're staying right here 'til we're done," Freddie replied. "And I would say we've been productive thus far--except for all the complaining."

They wouldn't be done until Freddie said they were, which could be today, or tomorrow, or three weeks into the future. With his Mercurial temperament, he'd named himself well. That's something none of the four would ever argue over.

John, typically, said nothing.

Roger flipped over in his chair, reclining upside-down with his bleached hair splashed across the dusty floor. Out of all of them, Rog felt the crushing boredom the worst as they sat and sat and sat and thought about lyrics for a good chunk of the day. He just had a different way of dealing with it; while Brian complained and John entertained himself within the recesses of his own mind, Roger caused Trouble.

"Oh, Roger," Freddie said. "Do sit up."

"I'm gettin' the blood to my brain," he replied. "So I can think of your stupid songs."

"If they're stupid, we're not using them," Freddie said.

"You let the car song through," John muttered under his breath, after which Roger grabbed a handful of wood chips and attempted to launch them--while still upside-down--across the room. He performed an unintentional backflip out of the chair and crashed to the floor.

Where he remained for some reason.

"Entertaining," Brian observed. "I still want to go home. I've got things to do. My thesis--"

"Oh, your bloody thesis. You're a rock star now, Brian!" Freddie exclaimed. He stood, paced across the barn, stepped over Roger, flailed his hands for effect, then paced back. "You don't need a doctorate if you're a rock star!"

"I thought we were to be rock gods," Roger provided, insinuating that a god was somehow superior to a star.

Freddie supposed he had a point. "Yes, yes, we're getting there. Patience!"

Asking this lot to have patience was like asking an elephant to fly. Like asking a fire to burn cold. Like asking a monkey to type the full works of Shakespeare with both hands tied behind its back. All possible, when one considered how very exciting and unpredictable the universe was... But still vastly implausible.

Something very small and very loud crashed through the barn's roof, landing mere centimetres from Roger's outstretched arm. Roger jumped to his feet with the alacrity of a twelve-year-old non-smoker and stumbled away, knocking over stools, a bandstand, a whole table, and a random chicken as he went.

The chicken, perturbed, scuttled from the barn.

John sat up, his face perfectly passive as Freddie asked, "What the fuck was that?"

Brian stood, creeping toward the shimmering object. It appeared frictionless with all its sparkling silver splendor, and as aerodynamic as the most advanced American war devices. Oblong and saucer-shaped, it sat off-kilter within the barn's floor, its leading edge plunged clear through the rotting wood and stuck soundly within the dirt. It wiggled a bit as if to free itself, then seemed to deflate in defeat as if sighing.

It was no larger than a standard record.

"Aliens, probably," John said.

"Oh, aliens!" Freddie poo-pooed, swatting him with the back of his hand. "It's clearly a toy. A frisbee or somesuch. Roger, go outside and see if--"

The frisbee whirred and hissed, a door opening and consummately vanishing as it did so. A bright green light shone from within as steam and fog poured out of it like water.

"Is Spielberg here?" Roger said. "Is he having us on? He's making a movie, you know. Offered me a part--"

"Oh, he did not," Freddie said. "Hello in there? Hello? Is it aliens?"

"Well, they wouldn't be aliens to themselves," Brian griped. "We'd be the aliens to them."

"Bother your semantics," Freddie said, kneeling next to the oblong contraption. When he poked it (as he could think of nothing better to do with it), his finger slid off the surface as if it were made of particularly slippery ice.

"Well don't piss 'em off," Roger said, kneeling next to Freddie and poking the thing as well. "Whoa. I can't touch it."

Indeed, it was covered in some sort of shield, which reflected all attempts at poking, no matter how vehement. Whenever one of them thought to touch it, it shimmered with a glowing rainbow of energy before repelling the contact entirely. It was neither cold, nor warm, nor anything at all. However, Roger could make the shield wiggle with a sort of frustration if he touched it in two places, and when Freddie added his fingers to the mix, the whole saucer seemed to burble in scandalized protest.

"I can't help thinking that's a terrible idea," John said.

"We should kick it," Roger suggested.

"That's exactly what I meant," John replied.

As Roger stood and drew back his leg to give the thing a good kick, Brian said, "It's not a football."

Defeated, Roger stomped the ground with the very foot that had been just about to launch the thing back into the sky. "Then what's it doing in our barn?"

Brian opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes dulled with the abject inability to answer Roger's inane inquiry. "What kind of question is that? Do footballs inherently belong in barns where you're from? If something enters a barn, does it become a football?"

"Well... Kinda? If it can be kicked?"

Meanwhile, the little door on the saucer-object remained open. Freddie wondered how much more mist could pour out of the thing before it was empty. Or perhaps it contained its own mist generator and it would continue to spew forth a cloud of noxious green gas until evicted from the barn. "I actually think Roger may have the right of it," Freddie said, detecting the faintest hint of ozone. "Exciting as all this is, I don't want to be poisoned."

Roger reeled his foot back again.

Fortunately, the occupants of the saucer picked that moment to show themselves. A single moment later, and they might have been stepping out into earth's atmosphere, tumbling end over end in the worst result of first contact ever written about in any science fiction in history.

Thwarted again, Roger collapsed into his chair and crossed his arms.

The aliens--for that's the way Freddie had begun to think of them--appeared as silhouettes against the burning green light from inside the saucer. Unsurprisingly, they were tiny, each barely the size of a paperclip or perhaps even smaller. A walkway extended in front of them as they squirmed out into the barn's dim light; the creatures meandered down it, leaving a trail of slime behind them. Vaguely slug-like, they were nevertheless adorned with at least half a dozen tentacles each, which were in turn adorned by an incredibly ridiculous amount of jewelry. Enough to rile Freddie's jealousy at any rate. If only he had more places to put shiny things, he could be a much happier man!

There were three of them. The tallest one spoke:

"ARE YOU THE QUEEN?"

Freddie blinked. The alien repeated: "ARE YOU! THE QUEEN?"

"We're... Queen?" Freddie tried. "The band. Queen."

"HAIL QUEEN BAND. THROUGH THE RADIO CHATTER OF YOUR ILLUSTRIOUS PLANET, WE HAVE DETERMINED YOUR LOCATION AND SEEK AN AUDIENCE."

John muttered, "I'm sure this is going to go well."

"I'm not sure you understand," Brian said. "We're not the queen. Or any queen, really. We're just--"

The aliens seemed undeterred. The tallest one interrupted: "NONSENSE. YOU HAVE PRODUCED MORE RADIO CHATTER THAN ANY OTHER ENTITY CALLING THEMSELF A QUEEN ON THIS PLANET. WE DEEM YOU THE SUPERIOR OF ALL OF THEM. YOU WILL NEGOTIATE ON BEHALF OF YOUR PLANET."

One of the smaller ones, who seemed to be wearing glasses on his protuberating eyes, asked, "WHAT IS YOUR PLANET CALLED?"

"They've been listening to our radio chatter," John began, "and they don't know what the planet is called?"

"Er... This is earth," Brian supplied.

"OF COURSE IT IS EARTH," the smaller alien said. "ALL TERRESTRIAL OCCUPIED PLANETS ARE MADE OF EARTH. WHAT DO YOU CALL YOUR PLANET? WHAT NAME?" He pulled out a very tiny, very adorable starmap from one of the flaps in his skin. Freddie didn't know whether to be awed or disgusted.

"That's--" Brian tried. Puzzled again, he scratched his head, as if the aliens had made a perfectly reasonable point.

In the silence, Roger clarified. "The planet is called earth."

The three beings conferred with each other for some time, their slimy tails wriggling behind them like rain-saturated worms. Occasionally, their stalk-eyes would flick around to fix the quartet with a glare--at least, Freddie thought it was a glare. It was hard to tell when one didn't understand the intricacies of alien expression.

Finally, the visitors turned. The one holding the starmap said, "EARTH IS A TERRIBLE NAME FOR A PLANET. WE DEMAND TO KNOW WHICH IDIOT NAMED IT."

Never mind that none of this made any sense whatsoever... Brian still engaged in a heated argument with the aliens about the virtues of a planet named earth, and how no one had ever actually named it. That's just what it was called. Roger found that hard to believe, since the idea had to have come from somewhere--and after all, the people of earth hadn't always known there were other planets, which meant they had to discover earth was a planet at some point, which meant they would have had to name it. When asked why, Roger shrugged and said that if humans were presented with something to name, they would inject their opinion onto it without questioning whether or not they should.

Brian supposed that was logical, then he further supposed that the person who named earth would certainly be dead by now, which the aliens thought was probably better for everyone.

"And just what is your planet called?" Roger asked, once the argument exhausted itself. Freddie thought the whole point of the alien visit probably wasn't to discuss the names of their respective planets, but here they were.

The other shorter being stood up just a bit taller. He was wearing different colors than the other two, although those colors were so random and chaotic that no one in their right mind could describe them. He seemed for all intents and purposes to be a diplomat of sorts. After a wiggle of importance, he said, "DENMARK, OF COURSE."

No one said anything for quite a while, then everyone started speaking at once. Except for John, who was quite content to smile at the absurdity of it.

"You're just from Denmark?" Roger asked. "How are you so short? And slimy?"

"I'm sure it's lost in translation," Brian observed.

"They've come billions of kilometers all to tell us them come from a place called Denmark!" Freddie exclaimed.

"NO, NO, NO," the alien said. "IT'S WHAT ALL CIVILIZED ENTITIES CALL THEIR HOME PLANET ON A MAP! SHOW THEM, WOULD YOU?"

The other short alien--the one with the glasses--lay its starmap out on the floor and opened it to a rather obscene size. It shouldn't have been possible for so much paper to fit inside one pamphlet-sized document, but the creature continued to unfold it and unfold it and unfold it until it covered an enormous portion of the dirty floor. Moreover, the stars elevated themselves just above the paper in a spectacularly impossible three-dimensional layout. Freddie couldn't help an awed "Oooh," of admiration.

John, sarcastically, added "Ahhh!"

"YOU SEE?" the tallest alien said, pointing to an X on the map. As it poked the location with a tentacle, it lit up with a vast trove of information--exact location, atmosphere type, composition of the rocky surface, current radio traffic, and climate. Probably. Freddie didn't actually know, as he couldn't read their language.

"Okay, what's it really called?" Roger asked.

"OH, YOU COULDN'T POSSIBLY PRONOUNCE IT," the diplomat said.

"Don't tell me what I can't pronounce," Roger insisted.

The aliens conferred again, this time for quite a while. When they turned, the diplomat cleared his throat and announced something that no human would ever be able to pronounce: a cacophony of squeals and thisksks and clicks and sub-sonic whistles and grunts and whoops and probably a boat horn or two.

Roger narrowed his eyes, considered for a moment, then opened his mouth and screamed.

"IMPRESSIVELY CLOSE," the diplomat said, as one would comfort a toddler who also happened to be a horse.

"IN ANY CASE," the leader said, his eyes spiraling around in what might have been an eyeroll, "WE CANNOT EXCHANGE PLEASANTRIES WITH A PLANET NAMED EARTH. IT IS SIMPLY PREPOSTEROUS. WE DEMAND YOU RENAME IT."

"But as we've said before--" Brian tried, but the leader held up a remarkable number of tentacles to halt him.

"YOU ARE QUEEN BAND," the leader said. "CLEARLY IT IS YOUR RIGHT TO NAME THIS PLANET."

Freddie, rather half-asleep from the long day they'd already suffered (at his whim), imagined it would be easier to give the visitors a name now, then sort things out later. After all, nothing political could come about as a result of this visit. The aliens were far too tiny to be any sort of threat. And if he just gave them a name, he could get back to writing lyrics with the others and no harm would be done.

Without any sense of impending doom despite his foreshadowy thoughts, Freddie searched around the barn until his eyes fell upon an open, half-stale loaf of bread. "The planet is now called Rhye," he said, adding the H in his mind since it sounded more dignified. "Yes, Rhye. Has a nice ring to it, I think."

"The moon's called Chicken Shit," John said.

Brian elbowed him.

"THEN ON BEHALF OF DENMARK," the leader said, "WE DEMAND THE UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER OF RHYE AND ALL ITS INHABITANTS! IMMEDIATELY!"

[sebsallowapologist]

Pothos 4.

Hi all- here’s the latest update for Pothos! 

If you would like to read the first three parts you can find them here.

As always please let me know what you think! I live for comments.

“Edward. There is only so much food I can put into my body before I absolutely... explode.” I huff as he tries to get me to eat more of the pasta on his plate. I had already had half of my meal, plus half of his.  “Hm. That’s fair.” He says, putting his fork back down. “We’ll have to get it to go.”

I nod and finish off his glass of wine, mine was already gone on his side of the table. This whole date had been about feeding Bella and asking her loads of questions. It was like we were starting fresh.

The waiter sees our empty glasses and comes over, “May I get you two more wine?” He asks and Edward looks at me, waiting for the answer. I shake my head no, I could barely form complete sentences around him when I was sober, the two glasses of wine would be enough to deal with I didn’t need to be actually drunk in front of him.

Edward flashes the man his beautiful smile, which makes the waiter take a step back. In admiration or fear? I cross my legs under the table and he smiles at me, “Alcohol flush is almost as pretty as your blush, not quite, but a close second.”

“It doesn’t look the same?” I ask and Edward shakes his head. “Your blush is a much deeper red.” I wanted to call bullshit, I had only seen the one basic shade of red but I guess his eyes did see a whole lot more than mine did.

The bill comes and he pays, always the perfect gentleman, before standing up and taking my hand to lead me out of the restaurant. “So what now?” I ask and he hands the ticket over to the valet. “What now?” He repeats and I nod.

“Well I was going to drop you off and walk you to your door.” He smiles and I let go of his hand, snaking my arms around his middle, pulling myself closer to him. “No.”

“No?” He chuckles and I nod, leaning up to kiss his marble cheek as the car comes from around the corner. I let go of him to get into the passenger seat. He walks around the side, looking inquisitive. I think my favorite thing to do in the world was to confuse Edward Cullen.

I didn’t say no to him very often, but when I did I meant it. “So if I’m not taking you home what are we doing?”

“Drive to that next corner and make a right, we’re headed up to Sunset.” I smile and he nods, taking the direction well. “The whole time we’ve... known each other, you have always been the... authority. On everything. You knew so much more than I always have. So I want to show you’ve something you’ve never seen.”

“You’ve shown me plenty that I’ve never seen.” He smiles, looking down at me in the passenger seat. I roll my eyes, that simply wasn’t true. Any experience I’d had, any book I’d read you had already read it, or experienced it. But that comes from living for over a century.

But I was finally on my own home turf, I knew your family had never spent much time in Los Angeles, due to the sun, so I finally knew some things you didn’t.

I remember what it was like, being introduced to this whole magic world seven years ago and the absolute wonder it gave me. I couldn’t do all that but I wanted to give you something. “Take a left on Sunset, when you hit the Pacific Ocean take a right.” I tell you, and you nod. This drive would normally take me about twenty minutes at this time of night, but you’re flying through Beverly Hills, barely missing red light cameras by inches.

I direct him to the outlook in Malibu, the one that had just two parking spots that dropped off to the beach. It was peaceful, beautiful, and most of all quiet. Quiet was hard to come by here.

When I had found the cove a few years ago everything was overgrown. There was no sign directing people to the little beach. If it was private property the owner hadn’t scared me off yet.

I take off my heels and leave them in the car, walking quickly over to the side that ran down to the beach. Edward holds my hand as we walk down the steep path. I could do it myself but I thought it was nice he wanted to help get me to the little safe haven.

“This is my favorite place in LA.” I smile, gesturing to the small beach and he looks around. “It’s beautiful.” He says and I nod, walking over to the water. A wave crashes onto my feet and I see Edward kicking off his shoes behind me.

He walks in the water too and I smile. “You come here often?”

“A few times a week.” I giggle and bend over, grabbing a pretty shell out of the water to inspect it. “This is your meadow.”

I hadn’t thought of that. The cove being my version of his meadow, the place he went to think. I missed that meadow.

“I guess.” I laugh and smile up at him. My heels had really closed the gap in our height difference, so it seemed more dramatic now that I was barefoot. “Have you shown anyone else this?” He asks and I shake my head no. “I don’t want to give it away. People would tell.”

“I promise I won’t tell a soul.” He smiles and I nod, “I know you won’t.”

We stand there, looking at the moon reflecting on the water and I jump a little when I feel his hand sneak around my waist, pulling me to his chest. I lean against him and sigh, I could stand here forever. His stone lips press against my hair, “I didn’t think I’d ever be this happy again.” He sounds like music.

“Me either.”

We took our time at the cove, and I wondered if we’d be able to come back on a sunny day, I didn’t think anyone would be able to see him, and I wanted to see him sparkle again. Once I start shivering he recommended taking me home, and I had to agree.

The ride back to my apartment was quiet and I could tell it was bugging him, but I needed some room in my brain to think. I knew it was supposed to happen after dates. Normally we would be going back to my place and we would hook up, or at least mess around. But I wasn’t dealing with some LA guy in his 20s... I was dealing with a century old vampire. I shudder and Edward flips the heat on. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” I mumble. “We’re almost home. Your dress is... gorgeous but isn’t the most practical for warmth.”  I blush and he chuckles a little. I smile and you pull into the driveway of my place, putting the car in park.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask and he nods, turning the car off. He follows me to my door and I smile, digging for my keys out of my purse as he waits patiently behind me. I open up the door and he follows me in, shutting it behind us. “Bella, could you please tell me what you’re thinking?”

I could tell it had been bothering him, and he was trying not to bring it up but he’d finally broken. I put my purse down and bite my lip for a second, getting the courage to make the move.

I step forward and press my soft lips to his stone ones, letting my hand rest on his chest. It was even more electric than I’d remembered. Had my memory fogged over the memories I spent years trying to forget? I was so stupid in High School, I didn’t know what a bad kiss was so I never even got to appreciate how good Edward’s kisses were. “Bella.” He says and press body against his, wanting to be even closer. He breaks our lips apart and I look up at him.

There was a fire in his eyes. “Did you forget?”

“Forget what?” I ask and keep my body close to his. “Bella you have to be careful.” he breathes and helps me take a few steps back. “Oh yeah.” I did forget- how could I forget, he was attracted to something much more powerful than my looks. The animalistic need I felt, he felt something else.

“Sorry.” I blush and step back, putting some unwanted (on my part) space between us. I sigh and bite my lip. He closes the gap between us and runs his fingers through my hair. “Are you tired, love?” He asks and I glance at the stove, the time reading after midnight. “Not really.” I mumble and he smiles, “What would you like to do then.”

We can’t do what I want to do.

“I wish I could describe to you how horrible it is to not be able to read your mind. I would give up reading anyone else’s mind if I could just understand yours.” He smiles and walks me to my own bedroom. “You are not missing much.” I lie and he gives a low chuckle. “I sincerely doubt that.”

The room settles and he finally clears his throat, “It’s late.”

“It’s not that late.” I argue back. I’d been up later. “Wouldn’t you like to go to sleep?” He asks and I shake my head no again. “What if I stayed with you?”

I felt like he was a father trying to get his toddler down for the night. He had always seemed more mature than I was, and I guess the time had closed the gap a bit, but not enough. “I think that’s a fair compromise.” I tell him and take his hand, bringing him through my apartment to my bedroom. I drop his hand as I walk over to my closet, grabbing some clothes to sleep in. “Will you get my dress?” I ask and move my hair off of my back so he could access the zipper. “Of course.”

His cool hands grasp the small zipper and slide it all the way down, when his hands disappear I turn around and he’s looking out the window on the other side of the food, letting me keep some modesty. I roll my eyes and grab some sleep shorts and a shirt. “I’m decent.” I smile and walk over to my bathroom, keeping the door open. He follows me in there as I wash my face, and as soon as I’m done with a product he picks it up and turns it in his hand.

“You didn’t wear face cream seven years ago.” He observes and I roll my eyes. “Because I was 17 and didn’t know I should be taking care of my skin. And back then I thought I would be 17 forever, why did skin care matter when I was going to look beautiful without care for the rest of my life?

I brush my teeth and hair and when I’m finally done Edward looks at me intently. “What?”

“You look so much more like my Bella without the make up.” He sighs and kisses my forehead. “Well I like the  make up.” I laugh, “Makes me feel fancy.”

“Alice would be over the moon to hear you say that.” I missed Alice.

I walk into my bedroom and he runs ahead of me, peeling back the blankets on my bed. I get in and he quickly tucks me in before joining me on the other side, taking off his jacket and tie before doing so.

“Am I what you thought older Bella would be like?” I ask, because I’m too afraid to ask if he still liked me.

“Better.” He sighs and pats his chest, signaling that I was allowed to rest my head there, which I do. His arm goes around my side and props me up so I’m tightly tucked under his arm, and despite the fact that he feels like stone,  it’s the most comfortable I’ve been in seven years.

I want to stay up and talk forever, I want to make sure he doesn’t leave, but as I’m falling asleep I just have the energy to mumble, don’t go. Under my breath.

***

When I wake up the next morning it’s not from my alarm, it’s a Sunday Morning, I’m woken up by the crack of thunder that echoes through my house. What they don’t tell you about Los Angeles, is that sure... it’s sunny most days. But when southern California gets weather it doesn’t mess around.

I reach forward for Edward, my hand running along the sheets of my bed, but my hand touches nothing. “Edward?” I call, sleep coating my voice. I clear my throat so that I can be a little more clear. “EDWARD?” I call again, even though I knew he would have been able to hear me the first time.

I get no response and my heart jumps into my throat.

[the-fixation-zone]

zuko thinks his scar makes him super ugly but sokka is there to convince him otherwise and it's just ❤

okay so this one CLEARLY got away from me but i hope you like this anon!! 

Sokka really has to pee. Like, knees knocked together, doing the Pee Dance, should’ve gone three hours ago but kept forgetting really has to go. Now that he’s gotten his act together and actually left paused his game of Witcher 3, this shouldn’t be a problem. Except. Except the one bathroom in the apartment is occupied. Has been for the past twenty-five minutes. And Sokka is getting…nervous. He hasn’t had an accident in years (if one wanted to know just how many years, Katara would probably happily share, but Sokka would beg you not to ask) and he isn’t trying to break his streak at the age of twenty-Full-Grown-Man-six, but if Zuko doesn’t get out of the bathroom right this second he may not have a choice in the matter. Sokka’s already knocked once, ten minutes ago, and as far as politeness goes he feels like he can chance another knock now.

So he does.

“Zukoooooo!” Sokka wails says manfully, rapping his knuckles against the wood, “please for the love of our friendship kindly hurry it up. An unstoppable train is about to leave the station, if you get my drift?”

Silence from the other side of the door. Ten minutes ago Zuko had at least given a half-hearted “one minute!” but now, nothing. Sokka’s not going to lie, he’s getting a little nervous. He doesn’t think Zuko would…hurt himself, but sometimes Sokka can’t be too sure. He leans against the door, pushing his ear against it, slowing his breathing so he can hear better. At first he hears nothing, but as his ears adjust, between one breath and the next he catches a faint sound.

Sniffling.

Shit.

Sokka’s known Zuko a long, long time. Long enough to know all about the house he grew up in, the family he had and didn’t have, and certainly long enough to know to play his next cards very, very carefully. Zuko isn’t someone who enjoys crying. Like, no one enjoys crying, not really, but Zuko really hates it; anytime he’s caught at it he’ll call the action gross, try to hide his face in the nearest soft object or run away. Sokka’s only seen it happen a couple of times, but that’s enough for him to know that if Zuko gets called on his tears he gets angry, fast. Sokka’s gotta be careful here.

“Hey, buddy?” he asks, his voice softer than before. “You need anything in there?”

He hears a hiccup, and another sniffle. Not good. Sokka thinks to anything that may have happened before Zuko went to the bathroom that could’ve triggered him but comes up empty. He was watching Sokka kick some monster ass, seemingly having a good time throwing popcorn at the screen and at Sokka in equal measure, egging Sokka on whenever he passed by some guards (“come on Sokka, beat their asses, how bad could it be?”); essentially, being the worst person to play a video game near. It had felt like they were both having a good time. Had Sokka said something in the heat of the moment? Was the graphic nature of the game too much? Sokka starts frantically running through possibilities, his bladder momentarily forgotten. Before he can run his brain into the ground, though, Zuko speaks.

“I don’t know.” Zuko’s voice is so faint that if Sokka’s ear wasn’t practically melded with the door he would have missed it. “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know…”

Sokka’s eyes widen and he decides now is that time to try the door. When Zuko gets stuck in a loop like this, he can go for a long while. Sokka takes the knob in his hand and turns, surprised to find it goes easily. Opening the door, he’s met with a heartbreaking sight. Zuko’s stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his hands gripping the sink, knuckles white. His face is inches from the glass and as he repeats his phrase the mirror fogs up around his mouth. Sokka strides across the room, definitely worried now.

“What don’t you know, bud? Can you tell me what’s going on?” Sokka doesn’t think twice before his hand is on Zuko’s shoulder. Zuko doesn’t look like he notices. He shakes his head once, pressing his face closing to the glass. Tears are flowing freely from his eyes, catching on his chin before dripping into the sink.

“Okay, that’s okay. Can I guess?” Sokka squeezes his shoulder, trying to ground him. Zuko nods once, his repetitions getting softer. Sokka releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Okay. Progress. Zuko will let him guess what’s wrong, which means he hasn’t gone too deep under. Sokka can work with this. But that means actually figuring out what’s wrong, with little to go on. Luckily for both of them, that’s what Sokka’s best at. And, if he’s being honest, figuring out Zuko has been a pastime of his for a while. The problem was less figuring it out, and more…bringing it up.

“Is it…something in the mirror?”

Zuko’s repetitions slow.

“Something you see? That you don’t like?”

They slow even further.

“Is it…the scar?”

The repetitions stop. Zuko clenches his teeth tight, which is all the answer Sokka needs. Sokka’s heart breaks a little more.

He’s known Zuko a long, long time, so he knows exactly how he got that scar. Thinking about it makes him incandescently angry, which isn’t very productive, so he tries not to. It’s hard, though, knowing that Zuko’s father is out there somewhere, living a peaceful life without his son, while Zuko suffers with the reminder of that asshole’s existence. It’s not fair. It’s not right.

Sokka doesn’t know what to say at first. He never does, really. He wants to comfort Zuko somehow, but he feels like all his words will come out sounding trite, or trivializing. He doesn’t want to hurt Zuko. He never wants that. So he squeezes his shoulder again while he thinks, letting the silence stretch between them.

“It’s so fucking ugly.” Sokka is surprised when Zuko speaks first. Usually he doesn’t like to talk about it, but if he wants to now Sokka will be the last to stop him. “It’s just…did it have to be my face? He took half my fucking face. I look like a monster. Like Geralt should be hunting me down, saving the townspeople from having to look at me.”

Sokka cringes, realizing that maybe the game hadn’t been as fun for Zuko as he had thought. He had no idea Zuko thought himself a monster. Sokka’s feet make the executive decision to move him behind Zuko, and his arms make the choice to wrap around Zuko’s waist. Sokka’s brain was not consulted in the matter but, upon reflection, finds itself okay with the situation. Especially when Zuko relaxes immediately, sagging his weight into Sokka’s chest.

“Zuko. Zuko Zuko Zuko. I don’t know who told you you’re a monster, but they’re a dirty, dirty liar. You are…” Sokka pauses, wanting to choose only the best words for his best friend, feeling Zuko’s body tense. “You are…. There aren’t enough words in the dictionary for what you are, but monstrous is not one of them. Brilliant. Glorious. Shining. Amazing. One of the best people I’ve ever known. No scar can take that away from you. It…I don’t want to sound insensitive, but it can’t be ugly. It’s part of you, and you’re the most beautiful person in my life.” Sokka bites his lip, realizing he may have said too much.

He’s known Zuko a long, long time and has been a little in love with him for most of it.

“Your father is the monster, Zuko, not you.”

Zuko lets out a shuddery breath, tension leaking out of him once again. Sokka takes the opportunity to tuck his face into Zuko’s neck, ignoring his own burning ears. “It’s just the truth. I’ll tell you every day if I have to.”

Zuko is silent for a full minute. And then, “Sokka…”

“Hmm?”

Zuko shakes his head. Sokka can tell, though, it’s not a headshake of negation.  “I’m sorry I’m being such a mess about this.”

Sokka tightens his arms around Zuko, burying his face deeper. He frees his mouth to say, “Never. Never apologize for that. You’re not a mess, you’re perfect. You can…you can always come to me, okay? Anytime you start thinking these thoughts, just. I’m here.”

Zuko nods.

“Um, Sokka?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you, uh, still have to go to the bathroom?”

Sokka then remembers his still achingly full bladder.

“Oh shit!”

[kagehinataboke]

roomates tdbk y e s

absolutely!!!! y’all know i live for this shit 👏🏻

tdbk: [30] neighbors/roommates

***

Loving your roommate isn’t a complicated thing. Falling in love with your roommate is, however, a very complicated thing. On his first day of university, Bakugou knows neither of these things. He’s never had a roommate before in his life, and he obviously doesn’t expect to fall in love with a guy—or with anyone, for that matter.

Unfortunately, people are always unexpected. You can prepare for college all you want—picking a place to stay, buying shitty bedding, lugging everything you own (and have shoved into cardboard boxes) up five flights of stairs because the elevator is broken—but you can’t prepare for something like this. For stepping into your new room to find an angel knee-deep in unpacked clothes and class registration papers.

‘Knee-deep’ wouldn’t normally apply in a situation like this, but there’s nothing else to describe the mess. Papers everywhere, pants on the back of the chair, a sweatshirt hanging from the AC box in the window. It’s like a cyclone has torn through, and in the middle of it all is the eye of the storm: a boy—an angel—who turns to look at Bakugou with eerily mismatched irises, an apology already spilling from his lips. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry for the mess. A bird hit the window, and then the AC kicked on, and well…” He gestures lamely at the disaster zone, as if that should be explanation enough.

Bakugou has been standing in the doorway, speechless, but he makes a conscious effort to stop gawking. “What the fuck?” The question applies to everything about this scenario: especially the human renaissance painting in front of him and the torn-up room.

The stormy-eyed, angelic pretty-boy associates it with the state of the room. “I know it looks bad… But it won’t take very long to clean up.” He rushes from spot to spot, efficiently erasing the disaster. “I wasn’t sure which side you wanted, but I suppose since most of the mess ended up on the left, you can take the right.”

Bakugou’s getting tired just watching him, so he puts down his cardboard burden and collects the papers scattered on the carpet. The top of the stack is the boy’s orientation welcome, with his first name in bold letters: TODOROKI SHOUTO. Clumsy. Probably a fucking moron. Angelic. Bakugou’s new roommate.

“Thank you.” Their hands brush when Todoroki takes the papers, his touch a shot of ice up Bakugou’s arm. Their eyes lock, and the air feels supercharged for ten long seconds before Bakugou rips his gaze away.

“No problem,” he says aloud. In his head echoes something very different: I’m so very, very fucked.

***

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks, and Bakugou is sincerely beginning to question his sanity. Todoroki’s hair in the morning. Todoroki’s whispering voice when he calls one of his siblings at any hour past 9. Todoroki tripping over his feet in the middle of the night because he doesn’t want to wake Bakugou up by turning on the light. Todoroki’s desk, which is so messy he can’t possibly know where anything is. Todoroki. Bakugou’s mind is drowning in him.

He isn’t gay. He knows he isn’t. But he also knows that Todoroki might be the heavens incarnate—and that’s pretty darn gay. Fuck, he doesn’t even care if he’s gay. Todoroki makes him forget his own name sometimes, sexuality be damned. If they have to live together for even another second, Bakugou is sure he’ll go crazy.

Well, he already has. He knows he already has when Todoroki bursts into their room and says the words, “I lost my wallet.”

Normally, Bakugou would give a resolute, “That’s your own fucking problem.” He knows he’s gone crazy because he says, “Where’d you have it last?” instead.

“The north side of the quad. I only just noticed it was missing.” He bites his bottom lip in a way that really shouldn’t be so enticing. “Is it possible to borrow your motorcycle?”

Bakugou knows he should say no. Getting any closer to the beautiful disaster that is Todoroki Shouto can not possibly be good. But fuck, he’s already pulling out his keys. “As if I’d let you touch my motorcycle, asshole. Let’s go.”

God, he’s a fucking idiot. What the hell is he doing? He can’t honestly expect Todoroki to ever realize his infatuation. If there’s one thing he is—aside from clumsy—it’s oblivious. He must be oblivious, if he can hold onto Bakugou’s waist so tightly without realizing that his heart is jumping out of his chest. The only thing that would be more obvious is a fucking sign on his forehead.

Bakugou faintly contemplates—while searching for the dipshit’s wallet on his hands and knees—just telling him outright. He’s so dense that he’ll never get it on his own, and living with him for the next year is too tortuous of a thought to bare. Jesus. He keeps bending over, for fuck’s sake. Even if that’s just this once, Bakugou still won’t survive.

“I can’t find it anywhere.” Todoroki straightens and glances at Bakugou sidelong. “Did you?”

He shakes his head with an irate scoff. “How the fuck did you lose your wallet, anyway? Wasn’t it in your bag?”

Todoroki avoids the question, brushing grass off his jeans. “You didn’t have to stay and help. Can I buy you dinner, as a thank you?”

If Bakugou wasn’t pissed, he’d be in the process of realizing that this means a date. But he is pissed, and fucking hungry after digging through the bushes. “Whatever. But I’m picking the restaurant.”

Todoroki looks almost relieved. “That’s fine. You have the transportation, after all.”

“Oh, right. Shit.” Bakugou runs a hand through his hair in an effort to focus on anything other than how close their bodies are about to be. “Fuck. Let’s just go.”

***

Dinner leads to drinking, which inevitably leads to bad decisions. Bakugou knows this, yet he still has a glass of sake anyway. It’s Todoroki’s damn fault, really. He’s sitting here looking so fucking pretty, what else is Bakugou supposed to do to keep his mind occupied? To make matters worse, the bastard keeps talking in that shitty low, raspy voice of his. Fuck. Bakugou cant even focus on what he’s saying, he’s focusing so intently on not getting hard.

“—told me the paper was actually due two days later. Can you believe it?” Todoroki’s lips twitch into a brief half-smile. Fucking gorgeous asshole. “Ah, I suppose I’ve been going on about myself this whole time… What do you want to talk about?”

“Huh?” Bakugou snaps himself to attention, tipping back the glass of liquid courage. “I’m not really great at small-talk.”

“Me neither.” Todoroki sits back in his chair, pausing to think. “I’m realizing now that, despite being roommates, we don’t really know each other. What if we play a game? Twenty questions.”

“Twenty questions?” Bakugou grumbles, flagging down the waiter for a second glass of sake. “Like the kid’s game?”

“Just to get to know each other.”

“Eh, I guess.” Bakugou traces the edge of the fresh sake cup. Anything to distract him seems like a blessing. “Ask away.”

Todoroki has a lot of questions for someone who’s usually quiet. Bakugou gets lost in the action of drinking, answering, and asking his own questions. The more he learns about Todoroki, the further he spirals into helpless infatuation. He knew he was fucked from the start, but now it’s impossible to reverse it. He’s got three siblings. His birthday is January 11h. His favorite food is soba noodles. All of it doesn’t mean much, but it digs the hole in Bakugou’s chest deeper and deeper, filling it up with more and more of Todoroki. He’s drowning in him, and what’s scary is that he doesn’t even care.

By the time they finish their food, Bakugou has had four glasses of alcohol and knows 28 new things about Todoroki Shouto. He’s also very, very drunk. Too drunk to drive, Todoroki tells him while asking for his keys. Bakugou faintly registers mumbling “Fuck off,” but they somehow make it back to the dorm anyway, so the bastard clearly didn’t listen to him.

The feel of a mattress is the next thing that breaks through the drunken fog. Bakugou sees Todoroki leaning over his bed as he helps him onto it. Before he knows it, he’s straddling him. Shit, he must be really fucked up. He can’t even remember moving. Everything is going so fast.

“You’re heavy,” Todoroki complains, turning his head to the side. “You smell like—“ His voice catches and cracks apart when Bakugou’s knee nudges between his legs. “Hey, what… what are you doing—“

“I like you.”

Blaring sirens go off instantly, but Bakugou’s body is on autopilot. He says it again, then a third time, his hands fisting in Todoroki’s shirt. He can’t control his mouth, which keeps spouting off a garbled confession while his brain screams incoherently. He’s fucking it up. Everything. All the feelings he’s been working so hard to conceal are slipping out. Fuck. He’s so fucking stupid.

But Todoroki isn’t disgusted. He isn’t sneering. He isn’t throwing Bakugou off. He’s blushing. He’s shifting his hips and averting his eyes. His breath is catching. He’s whispering something back. “…you, too.” I think I like you, too. The words could be a product of his imagination, but Bakugou can’t stop the heat spreading through every inch of his body. His mouth drops towards Todoroki’s, somehow managing to pause for permission.

Todoroki’s weight shifts. He looks up for the first time. His lips form a single word that unravels everything. Yes.

The world disintegrates, and once again, Bakugou doesn’t care.

[ponyregrets]

for the friends-to-lovers prompts, i found this in a text post i once reblogged: "we drunk-kissed but you forgot about it and i don’t know how to act around you anymore wtf". hope you have a nice day !!!

I combined this with another prompt (a tweet about a teacher with a birthday message on his forehead) from @allstandsilver

AO3!

Bellamy's first mistake is assuming that he's safe because his twenty-eighth birthday is on a Monday.

He doesn't make any plans, obviously. Celebrating the weekend before always feels kind of like cheating, but he invited people out for drinks on Friday, which he assumed was sufficient. It wasn't like he was ignoring his birthday.

When he gets home from work, Clarke isn't there, which isn't particularly surprising, but she has left a cupcake with a single candle on the kitchen counter, and a card that says, Happy birthday! See you in a couple hours, I hope. It's a fairly typical Clarke message, one that would have pissed him off, once upon a time. He moved in with her because the rent was cheap and the apartment was nice, and Clarke was friends with Monty, who is his friend who is least likely to tell him to move in with someone who is secretly awful as a joke.

And Clarke really isn't awful. The biggest issue was that she's rich and her parents own her very nice condo, and Bellamy was surly and vaguely resentful about the way she didn't have to work like a normal person and could still take care of herself. He might have been benefiting from her wealth, but that didn't make him like her.

Luckily, Clarke could do that all on her own. Within about a month, their bickering had moved from barbed to affectionate, and as he got to know her, he started to realize how hard Clarke did work, albeit with weird hours and less compensation than most people would need to survive. She wasn't an idle rich person, she was a rich person who took advantage of being well off to do what she wanted. It sucked that he couldn't do the same, but that's not really Clarke's fault. She works part-time for Planned Parenthood and volunteers at various museums and goes to parties her mother has just to argue with rich assholes, and on the side, she does art.

Now that he likes her, he's glad she's got the life she wants. She deserves it.

Right now, she's probably in her studio, so he texts Do you want me to make dinner for you or are you good? and goes to find a beer. He's going to have a couple drinks, not do any grading, and play video games, and when Clarke gets home, she'll probably hang out with him. It's a pretty good birthday plan, as far as he's concerned.

When the door opens half an hour into this plan, he calls, "Hey, welcome back!" and doesn't think anything of Clarke's not responding until the blindfold goes on.

"Happy birthday, dickweed," says Murphy, and shoves at shot into his hand.

"We love you," Miller adds.

"If you really loved me, you'd let me stay home and play Stardew Valley."

Miller takes one of his arms and Murphy takes the other and they pull him up and out of the apartment. He doesn't resist that much--they're probably not going to kill him on purpose, and if they got into the apartment, Clarke is at least involved, and she won't let them kill him by accident--but he makes sure there's enough resistance that they know he's not thrilled about this turn of events.

When he gets into the car, he gets another shot, and then Clarke says, "Your safe word is banana cream pie."

"Really?" he asks, downing the shot. It does actually taste like banana cream pie, which is kind of terrifying. "Is my safe word supposed to be dirty? That seems counter-productive."

"Is banana cream pie dirty?"

"It sounds like a euphemism for something. Come on, that's some sexual imagery."

"It might have been too long since you've gotten laid. Are you planning to figure out what sex act banana cream pie could refer to and then ask me to do it?"

"I'm definitely planning to do the first part." The second's not unappealing either, but he knows better than to fuck his roommate, especially his roommate he has a crush on. That's a recipe for disaster.

"Me too," Clarke admits. "But if you need to get out of this at any time, tell me banana cream pie and I'll bail you out."

"And you'll be a pathetic asshole," says Murphy. Then he squeaks, so Bellamy assumes Clarke kicked him.

"She'd only agree to this if we gave you an out," says Miller.

"This is why she's my favorite."

"Uh huh."

She's also his favorite because she ignores Miller. "So, do you need to get out?" she asks.

If he was a little better at letting friends down and/or self-preservation, he'd just say the safe word, and he and Clarke would get out of the car and have the low-key evening he'd been planning. That would definitely be the right choice. But they went to so much trouble, and he's kind of curious, and he's going to get to hang out with Clarke either way, so--

"I need another shot," he says, and everyone cheers.

*

Bellamy's alarm is set to go off every weekday at five-thirty, which is good because he wouldn't have remembered to set it and bad because his fucking phone is going off and he's definitely going to die. His mouth tastes like old leather, his whole body aches, and he thinks he banged his elbow on something, but he has no idea what or when or how.

"Happy birthday to me," he mutters, and staggers into the shower.

He stays in there for longer than usual, letting the hot water ease the various aches and pains in his muscles, but despite that, when he gets out of the shower, he still sees that BIRTHDAY BOY is written on his forehead in bright red sharpie, apparently unaffected by the steady stream of water trying to wash it off.

The calculations happen as quickly as they can, given how slowly his brain is moving. He spent a long time in the shower, and he's been dragging his feet every step of the way on top of that, so he doesn't have a lot of time to spare. He could try to scrub the marker off and be late, or he could just let it slide. His first-period class is APUSH, and while they're obviously assholes, they're the kind of assholes who will have fun with the teacher coming in with something weird written on his forehead. And then he's got second period free and he can deal with the problem then. That should be enough time.

It's not the best solution. But it's the best one he's got.

He gets dressed, gets packed, and makes sure he's completely ready to go before he pushes Clarke's door open and shakes her awake.

"What?" she asks, muzzy.

She's good at falling back to sleep, so he doesn't feel that bad for saying, "Hey, quick question."

She sits up, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "Yeah."

"Is there writing anywhere else on my body?"

It doesn't seem to be the question she was expecting. "What?"

"I've got this," he says, pointing to his forehead. "Anywhere else? I don't want to find out from a student."

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't." She finds her glasses on the bedside table and examines him, with a small frown. "I think you're good, as long as you keep wearing exactly that amount of clothing."

"Cool. Sorry I woke you up."

"I probably deserved it." She wets her lips. "That's it?"

"Yeah. Have a good day, get more sleep, I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

*

In Bellamy's experience, high-school kids think they're much slicker than they are. Which, to be fair, is true of a lot of people. But it's clear even to his alcohol-fogged brain that his APUSH class is laughing at him and they think he hasn't noticed, which is kind of pathetic. That is a level of failure to deceive that is truly epic.

"Okay," he says, once he's done with his lecture. No one has said a single word about the message on his forehead, and that is impressive. They're passing notes about it, but the class collectively understands that this is a rare and beautiful moment that must be protected at all costs. "Before we break into groups, any questions?"

Fox's hand shoots up, and he points at her. "How old are you, Mr. Blake?"

There's some giggling, and someone hisses, be cool in what they clearly think is a whisper. He can't tell who it is, though, so that's something.

"Uh, I just turned twenty-eight."

Apparently it wasn't the answer they were expecting; the news sets off another round of frantic whispering.

"I'm going to regret asking this, but did you guys think I was younger or older?"

"I thought you were, like, twenty-four, tops," says Sterling. "Maybe just out of college."

"Thanks, I think. Is any of this relevant to the exercise we're doing?"

"You asked," Sterling shoots back, which is true.

"I did, thanks for letting me know. Any relevant questions?"

"Did you do anything fun last night?" asks Jordan, and he makes a show of rolling his eyes. He's Monty's little brother, and Miller has a huge crush on Monty, so Jordan might actually have insider information on Bellamy's private life. It's something he tries not to think about.

"I don't know, did you? Get to work, Green."

The period ends with none of the students having told him about the writing on his forehead, which is the kind of thing that feels like it deserves a reward. He had expected someone to tell him, and the fact that no one did is genuinely impressive. They did a really good job.

Me: Do you think I can leave this message on my forehead until a student tells me it's there?

Clarke: I think you can do whatever you wantThat's your question?

Me: My first period class didn't say anything about itI want to see how long they can go

Clarke: They're going to counter-bet how long it'll be before you notice

Me: So everyone will have an exciting dayHow's your hangover?

Clarke: I don't get hangovers, I'm not an amateurDid you have fun?

Me: I think soMy memories are basically a fight scene filmed by Peter Jackson with a strobe light, so it's hard to be sure

Clarke: Ouch

Me: Did I ever use my safe word?

Clarke: NoIt seemed like you were having fun

Me: I'm pretty sure I wasThanks for helping to set it up

Clarke: [thumb's up emoji]

By fourth period, his day has completely turned around. His students have all entered into some kind of blood pact about not telling him that he has something written on his forehead, and three of his coworkers have come over to tell him privately, which means he can get them in on the whole thing. The students are convinced he just hasn't looked in the mirror since whenever the message was left, and there's some sort of pool to see who can find out who wrote it, which is doomed to failure. Unless someone confesses, the mystery of who wrote on his forehead will probably remain unsolved.

Still, it's nice to see the students banding together to keep a secret from him. Anything that gets the kids united is good in his book.

Madi Taylor from his sixth-period freshmen is the one who finally tells him, quiet and a little hesitant, after a homework question, when no one is around. She's clearly aware it's a betrayal, but she is one of his favorite students. He can't be mad she's on his side.

"You've got something on your forehead," is her way of putting it, which is pretty cute.

"Yeah, I know."

Her eyes widen. "Who told you?"

"Madi, how many mornings do you not look in the mirror before you go to school?"

"I heard you came right from the party."

"I don't know how anyone would know that, but I didn't." He smiles. "Don't tell them, I know you guys are having fun."

She looks dubious. "Aren't you going to get in trouble? Like, with the principal or something?"

"Not if everyone's cool."

Once she's gone, he texts Clarke someone finally cracked and then tries very hard to not think about when she'll respond, but that's an uphill battle. Because he always texts Clarke throughout the day, and she's been weird today. Off. Her replies feel terse, irritated and she could be distracted, but it feels like he fucked up something he doesn't even know about.

It's not even his fault, she was the one giving him endless shots. And she's the one who remembers what happened. He can't fix issues he doesn't know about.

Me: Did I do something to Clarke last night?

Miller: Dude, I'm not setting you up for this

Me: Setting me up for what?

Miller: Some shitty dad joke about how laid you got

He drops the phone and it clatters across the floor, startling his last-period class as they work on their quiz. It doesn't get close enough for anyone to pick it up, but Ethan does ask, "Did you finally see your reflection?"

"Eyes on your papers, it's just a phone," he says, grabbing it. "Two more minutes."

Me: Your shots got me blackout drunk and Clarke is mad at meTalk

Miller doesn't respond before the quiz ends, so Bellamy has to actually be a teacher instead of checking his phone, which is a fucking nightmare. Teaching is his passion, but finding out what happened last night and if he ruined his entire life hitting on Clarke or something would be nice too. That's the kind of data it's important to have.

"And yes, I have known about the writing on my face for the whole day," he tells them, wrapping up his lecture a minute before the bell. "But I'm proud of you guys for not telling me and assuming I don't know what mirrors are. Read the next chapter for tomorrow and be ready to talk about what you want to do for your projects."

He makes himself wait until all the kids are gone before he finally checks his phone, makes himself go to the top of the texts before he starts reading.

Miller: ShitUmOkI wasn't paying a ton of attentionFlirting with Monty etcBut I know you and Clarke were joined at the hipWhich is pretty standardBut you were drunk and touchy-feelyAnd later on I saw you guys full-on making outAnd then you told me you were leaving with this huge shit eating grin on your faceI figured you guys had sloppy drunk sex and I'd never hear the end of it

Me: Fuck I hope we didn'tIf I had sex with Clarke and FORGOTFuckThanks

Miller: Just remember, it takes twoYou weren't the only one grinning and slobberingJust talk to her

Me: I'm tryingThanks for the update

Miller: Let me know how it goesThe G-rated version

It's hard for Bellamy to believe there's going to be any version aside from the G-rated one, but he honestly understand why Miller thinks it's a good sign. If he was Clarke and he'd spent last night making out with her, only for her to spend the whole day texting him about some stupid shit, he'd probably be pretty upset. And if he thought that making out was a mistake, he probably wouldn't be snippy about it. He'd be relieved that she didn't know it had happened.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Even if he made out with someone he hated, he'd probably be annoyed if they just forgot. No matter how he felt about the person, he'd like to be memorable.

But really, there's only one way to find out why she's mad at him; there was only ever one way. They're just going to have to talk.

Me: Do you need dinner?

Clarke: At the studioBut thanks

Clarke's studio is a few blocks from their apartment, so he stops by on his way home from work all the time. If she'd said that on an ordinary night, he would probably stop by, so he can do it tonight too. It's not weird. Or at least, it shouldn't be. Everything is covered with a thin film of weirdness right now, but he'll break through it. He has to.

He's still mildly hungover and doesn't feel like cooking anyway, so he picks up some Chinese on his way. He can hear Clarke's angry playlist blaring as soon as he gets off the elevator, which isn't the best sign, but it's not like waiting will make it better. Not with unspoken grudges festering between them.

Not with his lips tingling with the knowledge that he kissed her and no fucking idea what it felt like.

"Clarke!" he calls, rapping on the door. "Open up, you need to eat!"

The music cuts off and the door swings open. Clarke is paint-splattered and wild, and he wants to kiss her now, fucking wants to kiss her all the time. It's not new, but it does seem more urgent.

"Did we make out last night?" he blurts out, and Clarke slumps against the wall.

"You remembered?"

"No," he admits. "I asked Miller why you were pissed at me and he said the last time he saw us, we were making out."

She wets her lips, not meeting his eyes. "I didn't think you were that drunk. I didn't know you--I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have--"

It makes sense all at once, even if it kind of breaks his heart. She thinks she took advantage of him and she's annoyed with herself for doing it. It's perfectly, totally understandable.

"Clarke, you didn't do anything wrong."

Her eyes flash. "How do you know? You don't know what happened."

"Did we kiss?"

"Yeah."

"Did we do anything else? After we got home."

"No. Just at the party. But you were way too drunk to--"

"You were pretty drunk too." He swallows, steps closer. "What happened? Why did we?"

"Because I wanted to!" she snaps. "Because I've been wanting to kiss you since you moved in and I thought you wanted to too and I--"

Interrupting someone with a kiss is, in Bellamy's experience, easier said than done. It happens all the time in movies and books, but it's hard to coordinate in real life, not nearly as fluid or smooth as he wants it to be. It should be a cool moment, but it takes a second to slot into place, Clarke's jaw under his fingers, her lips under his mouth.

But then she whimpers, tugs him close, kisses back, and it is familiar. They've done this before. They're good at this.

"I can't believe I forgot about this," he says. "Jesus, I didn't think it was possible for me to be so drunk I'd lose this."

Her smile is sheepish. "I did give you a lot of shots."

"Probably not just you. I'm pretty sure I drank my weight in birthday shots." He swallows. "So, uh--are we good?"

"Are we going to do that again?"

"I'm in love with you," he says. "So--yeah. As much as possible."

She laughs, winds her arms around his neck and kisses him again. "Wash your forehead off," she says. "Then we're good."

He had actually completely forgotten about the writing on his forehead; he hadn't had time to wash it off, with everything else happening, but it also didn't seem very important. "Do you know who wrote it?"

"No. But that's why I kissed you."

"Seriously?"

"I was just looking for an excuse."

"I'm glad you got one. Maybe I should keep it."

She pushes him away gently, still smiling. "Nope. Get cleaned up and we can have dinner."

He grins back. "It's a date."